


On A Clear Day: Remix

by Lonov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Agoraphobia, EWE, M/M, Remix, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonov/pseuds/Lonov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of Saras_girl's original story On a Clear Day, told from Harry's point of view. "Harry Potter is waiting for his real life to begin, and it appears that he's not the only one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	On A Clear Day: Remix

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remix of the fic "On A Clear Day" by Saras_girl. Somehow, Nat actually loved my take on Harry's POV in her story, which gives me the warm & fuzzies. This story was originally written some years ago; I only just got around to posting it.

_April 12th, 2000._

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_You are cordially invited to the Twentieth Annual Charity Gala for the War Orphans Trust, which will be held at Malfoy Manor on May 25th, 2000. As I am sure you know, this is a very important event on the charity calendar, and it would give the W.O.T. great pleasure if you would attend as our guest of honour._

_Your speedy reply is greatly appreciated._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_D. A. Malfoy, Vice President, W.O.T._

 

Harry snorts and walks back over to the owl that's still sitting in his kitchen, waiting for a response. It nuzzles his hand a bit, and he finds himself feeling sorry for the bird. Anything that belongs to Draco Malfoy must need all the love and attention it can get, since there’s no chance it gets any from Malfoy himself. Harry pets the owl, then shoos it out the window. He throws the letter on a side table and doesn’t make an effort to reply.

"Even Malfoy needs something from me," Harry mutters, before deciding that it's about time he stops talking to himself. It’s a bad sign. He isn't getting _that_ lonely, after all.

 

******

Two weeks later, Hermione sits in Harry's kitchen, filling him in on how things are between Ginny and Neville. Harry tries not to let his mind wander toward Draco Malfoy. He's received four more letters from him, though Harry stopped reading them after the first one. Instead, he'd let them stack up in his kitchen, untouched, until he couldn't stand to look at them anymore. He'd mailed them all back in what he hoped would be a clear gesture of 'stay the fuck away from me.'

"Ron seems to be quite pleased, now that he's positive Ginny will end up with someone he can trust, after all." Hermione gives Harry a knowing look, "Even if it's not the person he always thought she would be with."

Harry murmurs something along the lines of, "Yeah, well." He can see where this conversation is headed.

"I think it's time you start looking for someone, Harry," Hermione says cautiously, as though she's well aware how many times they've had this conversation before, and how differently Harry reacts every time. She seems nervous that Harry is going to blow up again, as he'd done when she brought the topic up a few months back.

This time, Harry's too tired to care. "I’ll find something eventually," He says. "I'm not sure if it will be a someone. I really doubt it will be." Rubbing his face, he adds, "You don't have to worry about me, 'Mione. I'll be fine. Really. We're not in a war anymore."

Hermione purses her lips and looks at him deliberately. "Aren't we?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Don't you have a meeting to get to, O Big Important Ministry Employee?"

After a bashful grin and a quick _Tempus_  charm confirming just that, Hermione moves from the kitchen table and makes her way towards the door. "You ought to consider coming out of this house eventually, Harry," she calls.

Harry doesn't bother with a response as he walks up the stairs toward his bedroom. At this point, she only said it out of habit.

He picks up the book he’d been reading before Hermione’s arrival—and, consequently, all night before that. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Not when Remus still haunts his dreams, and Tonks... Sirius... Cedric...

Harry hears mumbled voices from downstairs and frowns. Hurriedly, he grabs his wand and sits up. That’s Hermione’s voice, definitely, but who is she talking to?

 _Maybe she finally understands the cabinets_ , Harry wonders, but no, there’s another voice along with hers.

A shout of “Malfoy’s here!” comes up the stairs, and Harry rolls his eyes. It must be time for another of her elaborate schemes to get him outside. He wonders if whoever is with her will attempt to ambush him and shove him out the door. Part of him hopes so: it’s been so long since he’s gotten in a good fight.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that by the time he comes down the stairs and sees who exactly Hermione is conversing with, he’s completely dumbstruck.

"Oh, fucking hell, 'Mione, I thought you were joking," Harry says, voice raspy from shock. He watches as Malfoy turns and look at him, watches his grey eyes go wide and his pale hand reach for his wand before Malfoy manages to pull himself together.

Harry glares. Malfoy glares back.

Harry wonders if perhaps he’ll have his fight, after all.

"Joking? No,” Hermione says, making her way towards the door, obviously intent on _leaving Malfoy in Harry’s house_. “I'm late for work. Harry, I found Mrs. N, she's hiding in the downstairs bathroom. Just so you know.”

Harry hopes that she stays there. Or, better yet, that she comes out and attacks the man currently standing, unbelievably, in his entrance hall.

“Make it good, Malfoy,” Harry says, folding his arms.

“Who’s Mrs. N?” is the only response. Malfoy actually looks intrigued. It’s a far cry from the disdainful expressions Harry is accustomed to getting from him. Or, _was_ accustomed to getting from him, before the end of the war and the two years of bliss in which he didn’t have to see Malfoy at all.

“Malfoy.” Harry says dangerously, because he’s unhappy and _tired_ , and being around Malfoy has always made him twice as irritable. “What. Do. You. Want?”

Throwing down a recognizable stack of letters and crossing his own arms in a gesture that puts Harry much more at ease because it’s so much more familiar, Malfoy says, in the same arrogant tone he appears to love using, “I want to know why you can't honour a simple request. I want to know why you failed to respond to a single one of my letters. I want to know why you think it's acceptable etiquette to return said letters without a simple 'Yes, Draco, I'd be delighted to attend your lovely charity gala' or even a 'Go and fuck yourself, Malfoy, I'd rather _Crucio_ myself—"

"A normal person would've taken my lack of response as the second option," Harry snaps.

"—and I would like to know where my good owl is," Draco continues, as though without interruption, "Unless you've gone into professional owl-napping now that you're done with saving the world."

Harry stares at him, watches Malfoy failing to control his anger, and thinks that this obvious seething passion is actually interesting to watch. In fact, he could watch Malfoy churn negative emotions all day; it’s schadenfreude, and it reminds Harry that he’s not the only one that doesn’t have all the control they need.

After a few minutes, Harry realizes it’s his turn to speak. "Professional owl-napping?"

“Well?” Malfoy asks, although his discomfort is visible. _Good_ , Harry thinks.

"I didn't steal him, Malfoy," Harry says, sighing. And, really, he hadn’t meant to; Harry just assumed that the poor owl was beaten under the company of Malfoy, or _Crucio_ ’d, or worse. He had taken pity on it. Slowly, Harry walks through the halls towards where he’s keeping the owl. He should have sent it, he thinks, and then Malfoy could have just kept mailing obnoxious letters instead of showing up here himself.

Harry feels Malfoy’s eyes on his back, and fights the shiver of discomfort that passes through him, choosing to slouch further instead. He wishes Malfoy wouldn’t look at him like that. There’s a reason he hasn’t left the house in a year, and part of it is that people used to watch him all the time, and it still makes him increasingly uncomfortable.

Although in all honesty, that’s not the only reason he doesn’t like Malfoy looking at him. Harry knows how bad he must looks these days, though most of the mirrors in the house have been covered or charmed away; he doesn’t want to look at Harry Potter in the mirror every day. He’s found that it’s easier not to.

Harry opens the window and calls Malfoy’s owl, barely wincing as it lands on his shoulder and digs sharp talons into his skin. He’s used to claw-on-skin contact, after looking after Mrs. Norris for so long.

“Esme, you sodding little traitor!” Malfoy says, exasperated, as the owl nips Harry’s ear. Malfoy’s words register, and Harry emits a chuckle that startles both of them.

"You called your owl 'Esme,' Malfoy?" Harry asks, raising his eyebrows and feeling something akin to amusement for the first time in... too long. "You do know it's a boy, don't you?" Harry’s amusement grows when a light flush crawls up Malfoy’s neck, and he fails completely at covering it up. _That was_ definitely nothing Harry had ever seen in school.

" _Yes_.” Malfoy snaps, “Of course. My secretary is—never mind that, Potter. I demand that you give him back to me at once. Get your own owl.”

"I do have my own owl," Harry mumbles, gesturing to a sleeping owl in the corner behind Malfoy (“Samira,” Hermione had named it, but Harry felt it best not to get attached). "It's not my fault if yours didn't want to go back to you. It's definitely not my fault if you mistreat your owls,” Harry adds, giving Malfoy a look that properly conveys he’s well aware Malfoy is an owl abuser.

"I certainly do not!" Malfoy replies, indignant, but Harry has his doubts. “And anyway, this isn't about owls."

Harry frowns. "Right." He Summons a small cage from across the room—wandlessly, because as he no longer has any concerns that Malfoy is here for nefarious reasons, his wand is put away—and gently pushes ‘Esme’ inside, handing Malfoy the cage. "Only, it seemed like it was about owls," Harry adds, stifling a yawn. He might not be suspicious of Malfoy’s purpose here anymore, but he still refuses to look weak in front of him. Force of habit, Harry supposed. Although Malfoy had looked pretty weak at his Azkaban trails, and Harry didn’t think any less of him for it; that being said, it wasn’t as if Harry thought any more of Malfoy, either.

"No. It's about letters. Letters, Potter," Malfoy insists.

Harry rubs his face, wonders if maybe he should just threaten Malfoy into leaving his house, or hex him out, and decides that before anything else occurs, he needs good coffee.

When he leaves the room, Malfoy is trailing behind him. _But then, he always was a follower_ , Harry thinks as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"Did you even read them?" Harry hears as he busies himself with the coffee maker.

"Read what?" Harry asks, as he’s drawn away from thoughts of followers, leaders, and both sides in a war that had no real winners and only losses.

"Read what," Harry hears Malfoy mutter from behind him and across the kitchen. "Good grief, you're annoying."

"Then feel free to leave," Harry snaps, pouring out coffees and relishing the bitter smell. "You're the one interrupting my day with your accusations, and you're the one standing in my house without an invitation. No one's forcing you to be here, Malfoy. I don't like you, and you don't like me, and there's really no use—"

"Someone _is_  forcing me," Malfoy says, "President Cholmondely is quite insistent that you attend this function, and as it's fallen to me to secure your attendance... You know, it's extremely rude to stand with your back to someone when they're talking to you, Potter. And do you know what else is rude? Failing to reply to—"

"Your letters?" Harry says, finally turning around, head beginning to pound from lack of sleep and an abundance of Malfoy.

Holding a cup out to him, Harry takes a moment to study Malfoy; he’s still wearing expensive and slightly elaborate clothes, Harry notes, but with less of an air of superiority. Malfoy looks much better than he did at the trials: less pale and worn, more alive. The malnourished look he’d sported then, however, is still very much present. It’s a wonder if all the house-elves he must have aren’t feeding him properly.

Harry rolls his eyes as Malfoy examines his cup dubiously."It's fine,” Harry informs him, nodding to the coffee. “I don't poison people, even people I don't like. Even people who wear poncy winter coats on sunny days."

"It's cold out," Malfoy mutters into his cup.

Harry shrugs, and then his tongue slips, and without meaning to he says, “I don’t go out.”

He wants to wince when Malfoy pins him disbelievingly with large grey eyes and asks, "You _don't go out_?"

"No,” Harry says, trying not to nervously rub at his face. And failing.

"At all?"

"No, Malfoy, are you deaf?" Harry rasps. He won’t have this conversation. Hermione is one thing, but Malfoy? There’s no way in hell. "Now, either drink that fucking coffee or give it back to me, because it's good stuff and you're not wasting it."

Malfoy frowns. Sips his coffee. Looks into the mug with an obvious appreciation.

 _Crrrreak_ , the cupboard puts in, and Harry hurries to shut it. He taps to it a clear message not to say anything, and the cupboard stays closed, although obviously unhappy.

Malfoy is silent for a precious, precious moment. Then:

"You seriously don't go outside? At all?"

"You know what, Malfoy?” Harry says, rubbing at his face again. “Let's talk about the letters. You can say your piece, and then you can take your owl, and your personality, and leave me alone.”

Instead of mocking the constant face-rubbing, Malfoy wonders, "Why did you make me coffee?"

"S'good manners,” Harry says. He may as well.

A pause. "You're tired."

"Why the fuck do you care?" Harry snaps, not wanting an answer, just needing Malfoy to _leave_. He already has Hermione bothering him more than usual lately, he doesn’t need Draco sodding Malfoy doing the same!

There’s a heavy sigh from across the kitchen, and then Malfoy says, in a tone of whatever authority he seems to think he has, "Potter, I'm going to talk about the Gala now. And the lonely children. And a little about the letters. And then you are going to tell me you'd love to attend, and you're going to tell me what kind of coffee this is, and then I'm going to leave, and you can get back to stroking your cupboards in peace." Harry snorts. "How does that sound?"

"Just get on with it, Malfoy.”

“The Gala is one of the most important annual events of the War Orphans Trust...” Malfoy begins, and Harry stops listening.

His mind wonders, instead, to the visit with Hermione. Ginny is happy with Neville, then. Harry knows he should feel something about that, either joy or content or anger or _anything_ , but he doesn’t. Ginny hasn’t been by in a while, anyway, and he hasn’t had feelings for her in years. It scared Harry when, after the war, he wasn’t interested in her anymore; and not just her, but anyone. Now it no longer bothers him. He hasn’t even had a wank in what could be months.

Shrewdly deciding that it’s best not to think of wanking while being talked at by Draco Malfoy, Harry forces his mind to change topics. Idly, he notices that Malfoy takes his coffee the same way he had in sixth year, and still holds it the way only he ever has: rested in the palm of his hand, cradled by fingers. _He’ll burn himself that way,_ Harry thinks, but doesn’t say anything. It isn’t his concern.

After a few more minutes, he's had enough.

“Sounds great, Malfoy. Ready to leave my house yet?”

Malfoy taps his fingers. “No. Potter, I’m going to explain this again, and again, and again until you finally agree to going.”

Harry sighs. “You’ll be talking forever, Malfoy.”

“Talking forever is better than being brutally murdered by my boss!” Malfoy informs him, composure cracking. Harry notes that Malfoy’s composure done that a lot today. He hopes it’s because Malfoy feels uncomfortable being here.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Talking to me is better than being murdered? Wow, Malfoy, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“And it was nicer than you deserve. I’ve half a mind to throw myself off the Manor rather than deal with you _or_ President Cholmondely,” he gives Harry a pointed look, “And that’s a long way down.”

If Harry’s hands weren’t already over his face, he’d have raised them to scrub at it. “I know that. I’ve seen it.”

The mention of the occasion when Harry had been forcibly dragged to Malfoy Manor seems to shut Malfoy up for a while. He wonders why talking about the hours Harry spent at Malfoy Manor seems to make Malfoy and guilty, instead of proud or indignant.

 _No, that’s not fair_ , Harry mentally chides himself. He knows better than anyone that Malfoy never wanted to do half the things he had to. And he had saved Harry’s life that day.

Desperate to change the subject, Harry takes his hands away from his face, opens a kitchen cabinet, and pulls out a Muggle pen and paper. After scribbling an address on it, he hands it to Malfoy.

“Here,” Harry says, and in response to Malfoy’s raised eyebrow, “It’s the Muggle coffee shop I get this stuff from,” he gestures to his now-empty cup. “You said you wanted to know what kind. Now you do. Get out, Malfoy. I’m not going to the Gala.”

Taking the slip of paper in slight confusion and making his way back towards the door, Malfoy shouts, “This isn’t over, Potter!”

Harry, already heading towards the book in his room, is not so sure about that.

 

 

******

When the first knock rings through Grimmauld Place the next day, Harry is honestly shocked. He knows that he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t even be surprised. But he had been sure that Malfoy—and it definitely is Malfoy, anyone else who ever visited would have a key—wouldn’t come back, sure that he’d scared Malfoy off with the mention of his time in Malfoy Manor. Granted, he hadn’t meant to make the comment sting, it was only supposed to be a statement of fact. The way Malfoy had received it, however, made Harry think it had been taken that way.

Yet, here the stupid git is, knocking at his door. And knocking, and knocking, and knocking, until Harry gets so used to it that he doesn’t even hear it anymore. He re-immerses himself in a letter he’s writing to Ron—they mostly only talk by owl, these days. Ron’s too busy for much else.

Harry is just asking about how George has been doing when he hears the first bellow of sound.

" _Heaven knows I'm miserable now,_ ” echoes through the house, and Harry freezes on his couch. Dear Merlin, no.

“ _I was looking for a job and then I found a job, but heaven knows I'm miserable now_."

Stupid fucking piece of—

_"In my life, why do I give valuable time, to people who don't care if I live or die?"_

—want to die, Malfoy must want to die, he must want to be killed and then killed again, because—

_"Two lovers entwined pass me by, and heaven knows I'm miserable now!"_

—Harry is going to kill him. Right now.

 _"What she asked of me at the end of the day, Caligula would have blushed,"_ Harry opens the door to find Malfoy shouting tunelessly, _"You've been in the house too long, she said, and I, naturally, fled."_

Malfoy turns, smirking slightly. Harry hasn’t been this furious in a while.

As if the neighbours need more reasons to talk. As if the reporters need to show him attention once again, over _this!_

 _"In my life,"_ Malfoy continues to sing, completely unperturbed. _"Why do I smile at people who I'd much rather kick in the eye?"_

"Malfoy," Harry growls, trying his hardest to put all his anger into that one little word.

"It's a good question, though, don't you think?" Malfoy asks, coming closer to Harry, evidently intending to enter the house.

"I don't know, Malfoy,” Harry replies, eyes narrowing, “I've never seen you smile.”

When Malfoy flashes him a huge grin for no reason at all, Harry’s heart skips a little. For no reason at all.

But Malfoy looks _good_  when he smiles.

At this thought, Harry deepens his glare. "You're a horrible singer. What do you want, apart from disturbing my neighbours?"

"That's not very nice," Draco says, as if they’re friends and this is amiable banter, rather than Harry very slowly climbing down from the Ladder of Homicide Contemplation. "And if you let me in, I'll tell you."

Harry wonders what would happen if he punched Malfoy in the face. It’s a sad thought, because he’s sure the bastard would stay, anyway.

 

 

*****

"... we need you to attend this event, and as such, I shan't be taking no for an answer," Malfoy finishes, looking at Harry as though proud of his little speech.

Harry hadn’t been listening. Harry had been leaning against the counter drinking coffee and wondering why Malfoy had smiled like that.

“'We need' me to attend this event?" Harry asks with air quotes. "Or _you_  need me to?"

"What difference does it make?" Malfoy says, put out.

"Plenty.” Harry responds immediately. “It's the difference between whether I'm saying no because I'm not interested in big, glitzy galas that cost almost as much as they make for their cause, or whether I'm saying no because I don't like you."

He watches with lazy interest as an array of emotions pass over Malfoy’s face. "Look," Malfoy finally says, sounding strained, "I realise that I've done things in the past that are..." Harry turns his back to Malfoy, shaking his head and barely believing what he’s hearing. Malfoy sounds incensed when he huffs, _"What?"_

"I can't believe I'm even having this discussion with you, Malfoy. In my own kitchen, no less.” He rubs his face and hunches his shoulders to a near-impossible degree. "The thing is, I'm fully aware that we've both done our share of shitty things to each other over the years. I'm not keeping score, and I'm not saying that with everything I know, I'd have swapped my life for yours at any point."

Harry doesn’t realise how anxious the conversation is making him until Malfoy’s soft “Oh,” from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table causes him to sigh outright.

He wishes Malfoy would leave. He just really, really wishes that Malfoy would leave.

"But you know... even with all of that taken into consideration... I'm going to be totally honest with you, here, Malfoy. I don't like you. You're arrogant and rude. You have no idea about other people, and all you care about is yourself. And the funny thing is, now you're just like everyone else out there—you want a piece of me to make your life better, and I'm not interested. All right?" Harry turns to face Malfoy now, and the other man seems to be searching his face for something.

"Well," Malfoy finally says, after a long moment of _looking_  in a way that makes Harry tingle with discomfort, "While I'm glad you got that off your chest, I'm afraid I'm still going to need you at that Gala."

Harry groans, swears, and jumps up to sit on the counter, elbows on knees and head in hands. "Malfoy, if you have a shred... the tiniest shred of human decency left in you, please fuck off and leave me alone," Harry mutters. He finds himself strangely wondering if Malfoy will take that as a challenge to purposefully eliminate any human decency that may be left. Teenage-Malfoy would have.

Malfoy just shrugs and says, "I think we've already established that I have no such thing, so what I thought I'd do is keep coming back here every day until you accept the invitation."

And that is absolutely nothing like what Harry wants to hear. "What? No! You'll do no such thing!"

"Well, in that case, I'm sure your neighbours will appreciate my singing instead.” Harry’s heart sinks. Malfoy is serious. “I thought I'd come a little earlier tomorrow morning... how does six o'clock grab you?"

Harry’s panic begins a steady inclination.

"You... I'll use a Silencing Charm," Harry says triumphantly, pleased to have discovered a way out.

Malfoy snorts and steps closer. "You're rubbish at Silencing Charms. And you always forget them when you're angry!"

Any retort Harry had in mind slips when he processes Malfoy’s comment. "How do you know that?" he demands.

“How do you know how I take my coffee?"

 _Shit,_ Harry thinks. How has he somehow forgotten that the only person oblivious to all his time spent watching Malfoy's every move was... Malfoy?

"I just know,” he mutters. “I've seen you at the breakfast table enough times over the years.”

"Oh, really?" Malfoy says, smirking his stupid face off.

Getting anxious once again, and feeling a blush creep over his features, Harry quickly changes the subject. "Look, if you really must talk about your stupid Gala some more, go ahead, but I'm still not coming. If you want to waste your time, then I—” _implore you to do it somewhere away from my house,_ he wants to say, but as Malfoy’s left hand comes up to brush hair from his eyes, all that comes out is: “Are those _ducks_?"

"Excuse me?"

"Ducks. On your gloves," Harry repeats, sounding faint, shocked to the core for the second time today, and he can barely fight the smile attempting to work its way onto his face. "You're wearing gloves with ducks on them. Draco Malfoy is wearing duck gloves."

"You leave my ducks alone," Malfoy says, "At least my ducks have been outside today, have you?"

Harry feels the beginnings of a smile melt off his face. "No, I haven't, and there's no way on this earth I'm getting into that with you. Forget I said anything about it. Seriously, or else you and your ducks can fuck off back where you came from right now, Gala or no Gala."

Malfoy, it seems, has at least some sense, because he lets it drop. Instead, he takes off the duck gloves—unfortunately, Harry thinks, because really, he quite enjoys them—and mutters, "Her highness would certainly love that."

"Your boss? Mrs. Chondley-whatsit?" Harry asks.

Wrinkling his nose, Malfoy replies, "President Cholmondely, yes. She's got her tiny, black little heart set on you."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Why can't she do it herself, if it's so important?"

"It's important, but not top level important, apparently. It's VP important. Aren't you glad you know exactly how important you are?"

Surprised by Malfoy’s actual sense of humour, Harry finds his lips quirking and says, "Yeah, I'll sleep tonight now, Malfoy."

He’s a little more than surprised that he’s smiled at all today. Even with Hermione, smiles are rare; with Malfoy, they seem to be much more... existent. Possibly, it’s the second symptom that he’s losing his mind. The first, of course, would be all the talking to himself that he’s been doing lately.

Then three things happen in quick progression:

Malfoy takes off his coat, revealing a silk scarf.

Mrs. N appears before Harry can properly warn Malfoy against what is about to occur.

The scarf is yanked from Malfoy’s hands, and it knocks him onto his arse.

"What the...?" Malfoy inquires, reaching for whatever took his scarf.

"Don't!" Harry calls, but it’s far too late.

Mrs. Norris has struck again. Cradling a scratched and bitten hand, Malfoy seethes, "What the fuck _was_  that, Potter?"

Harry is caught between pity and amusement as he makes his way over to where Malfoy is sitting on the floor. Showing him the various cuts on his own hands, he says, sheepishly, "That was Mrs. N. She can hear a silk scarf at fifty paces, or so it seems. That, along with a whole list of other things that upset her delicate sensibilities... I'm still finding them out myself. Hence the scratches."

Malfoy hauls himself to his feet. "Why would you keep something so unpleasant?" he inquires, attempting to brush dust off his expensive trousers. Harry notes absently that it’s time to clean the kitchen. "Or is she part of your elaborate 'none shall pass' routine?"

"No. Filch died about six months ago, and nobody else wanted her. Hermione ended up with her at first; you know how she is," Harry explains, examining his own hands. "That didn't last long, though; Ron's a bit touchy about cats... long story," he says, looking at Malfoy, waiting for some response.

"Filch? You mean to say that's... _the_  Mrs. Norris? What happened to Filch?" Malfoy asks, sounding generally interested.

"Spattergroit," Harry says, and they pull equal faces of disgust.

"That's... unpleasant."

"Yes," Harry agrees, turning to rinse out the coffee machine.

"So is that cat," Malfoy adds.

"Yes. And I still don't like you, by the way," Harry says, because agreeing with Malfoy is weird and he wants comforting familiarity more than anything else.  After a beat, he points to the cabinet and adds, "Cups are in that cupboard, there."

Retrieving Malfoy’s scarf actually isn’t that difficult, once he’s found the cat and Stunned it gently. Back in the kitchen, Malfoy is looking forlornly at him hands and still trying to brush any remaining dust off his trousers. Harry pours them both coffee and leans against the counter.

“I find it difficult to believe that anyone would want to save Mrs Norris,” Malfoy mutters. “Even Granger.”

Harry shrugs. “Most of the things she cares about are a bit… strange. House elf rights and werewolf legislation acts and evil cats are all part of who she is, really.”

“Yes, but even so…”

They talk idly about Hermione for a long time after that, until Harry’s been through another cup of coffee and his stomach is grumbling unpleasantly. He kicks Malfoy out of the house so that he can make breakfast for himself—because like hell is he going to cook for that git—and when Malfoy leaves and Harry looks at the time, he’s surprised to see how long they’d gotten along for.

Harry stays in the kitchen and fries up an egg and some bacon for himself, singing under his breath absentmindedly. When he finally catches what song he’s been singing, he’s not sure if he should laugh or punch a wall.

 _“Two lovers entwined pass me by,”_ Harry mumbles, “ _and heaven knows I’m miserable now.”_

 

 

******

He’s been awake for hours the next day when he hears the knock at his door.

"How is it that I go to all this trouble to keep everyone out of here, and yet I've had _you_  standing in my kitchen three days in a row?" Harry asks, stepping aside to let Malfoy into his house. It’s not like he has much of a choice.

"I don't know,” Malfoy replies, making his way into the kitchen. “I'm surprised you haven't hexed me by now. I don't think you're really trying very hard.”

Harry takes the seat opposite Malfoy at the table, resting tall mugs of coffee in front of them both. "What would be the point? You'd only come back anyway."

"True, Potter. True." Malfoy says, inhaling his coffee like it’s oxygen. "Where's your horrible cat?"

"Hiding." Harry says, lips quirking, "She doesn't really like people."

Harry wonders if Malfoy thinks he can really hide that smile behind his coffee cup. It’s too bright of a grin; it shows right through.

"They do say that people begin to resemble their pets, don't they? I'm trying to remember who was this antisocial first, but it's a close call, Potter."

"I told you I don't want to talk about that," Harry hisses.

"All right, let's talk about something else," Malfoy says brightly, and Harry’s guard climbs up even higher. "We could go for a walk in the park. It's a lovely day... sunny with a chance of frostbite. You could borrow my duck gloves.” Malfoy’s smiling again, and Harry wishes that he’d stop that almost as much as he wishes Malfoy would stop talking about going outside. Although, the smile he wishes would stop because it’s fucking _appealing_ , and the thing about going outside... not so appealing. Harry glares.

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry says, and Malfoy glares back. "I don't want to be your project, so just stop it."

And he doesn’t want to tell Malfoy that he has his own park upstairs, one that took him weeks of magic and Hermione’s help to perfect. It’s just the ceiling—spelling the carpet to grass had ended badly—but to Harry, it’s perfect. It makes him think in equal parts of Hogwarts and an outside world where he can’t be disturbed, and actually, he loves his Park. But he doesn’t love Malfoy, so the git can find a different fucking park to go to.

"You know what, Potter?” Malfoy says, lifting an eyebrow, “Not everything's about you."

Growing angrier by the second, Harry almost shouts, "This is my house! Or had you forgotten?” He looks around at Malfoy’s expensive clothes, strewn across his kitchen table and chairs, “You certainly seem to have made yourself at home."

"I'm not doing this for the good of my health, you know,” Malfoy scowls. “It's a necessity. In that it is necessary for you to attend this Gala, so that I might keep my position at the Trust, which is also... necessary." Evidently, even Malfoy can hear that fault in that argument; he frowns, looking slightly aggrieved.

Harry scoffs, "Necessary for what? You don't need a job. I might've given up reading the _Prophet_ a long time ago, but I know enough to know you're not exactly skint, Malfoy."

Malfoy sighs and puts his cup down. Harry finds himself annoyingly relieved—he really is going to hurt himself one day holding it the way he does."It's not about the money. It's about... let's call it damage control, for the Malfoy name. My parents are in France, so it's quite literally left to me. Don't think that I haven't exhausted every other option over the last two years," Malfoy says, studying his hands, and Harry has a feeling that he doesn’t talk about this much, to anyone. He wonders if Malfoy has any friends left. "Unfortunately, it turns out that charitable work for little children is the only thing that garners any respect for a Malfoy these days, and believe me, it's grudging."

"So, you don't really care about the poor little kiddies?" Harry asks, voice much more gentle than it had been. And much more gentle than he’d meant it to be. However, the thought that everyone has abandoned Malfoy and left him to fix problems that he didn’t really create in the first place is a sad one.

"No more so than anyone else," Malfoy admits, and when he looks up, their eyes meet and hold for a few long moments. Malfoy has nice eyes, Harry notices absently.

"Hang on, so, your parents left you on your own and buggered off to another country... and yet you're putting in all of this effort to fix everything for them? Why?"

Malfoy sighs."Because they're my family, Potter. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Inexplicably, Harry feels hurt. He shouldn’t be surprised that Malfoy would stoop to that level, not really, and yet Harry had thought they were past that.

Regret clouds Malfoy’s face. Harry looks away. "I meant that... well, literally. Not as an insult. I _don't_ expect you to understand. You didn't have the same sort of upbringing I did. It's no one's fault," Malfoy says quietly, as though trying to comfort him.

"Except Voldemort's," Harry mutters, thoughts wandering far from the table.

“Must you?" Malfoy asks, and when Harry glances back at him, he looks pained.

"Yep."

So Malfoy still couldn’t say Voldemort’s name. Interesting. Harry wonders if that’s at all related to the chip of guilt that seems sewed onto Malfoy’s shoulder, or if it’s because he’s still afraid.

Harry can understand still being afraid, although not of Voldemort.

 

 

*****

Already slightly uneasy because he’s run out of his favourite coffee and has had to resort to gulping down his second best brew, Harry happens to be pacing around the entrance hall when Malfoy arrives the next day. When he hears the knock, his stomach doesn’t drop quite as far as it did the last few days. As long as Malfoy doesn’t mention going outside, Harry decides that it won’t be so bad.

"Good morning to you, too, Potter," Malfoy calls, as he follows Harry through the hallway, into the kitchen.

Harry, peeved from lack of sleep, points out, "You know, when you call me Potter, it makes me feel about thirteen.”

"What?"

"When you call me Potter. No one calls me Potter. No one's called me Potter since I was at school. I feel like I'm about to be called on to answer a question about Shrivelfig extract or given detention," Harry elaborates, scrunching up his nose and thinking back to unpleasant teachers and blond Slytherins that, in the past, would have rather fed themselves to a werewolf than ask him for a favour.

"Please tell me you're not asking me to call you by your first name," Malfoy says, eyebrows raised, taking a cup of coffee from Harry and placing it on the center of his hand. "Because that's all kinds of weird."

"I don't see why I should have you invading my privacy _and_ using my own name to make me feel uncomfortable," Harry opines. "You always manage to make it sound like something rude. _Potter,"_  He says, raising his voice several pitches too high and putting on the most obnoxious tone he can manage so early in the morning.

"You still call me Malfoy," Malfoy points out, "and if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you—this coffee tastes weird." He frowns, completely distressed, as though the wrong coffee has just ruined his day. Harry thinks that maybe it has.

"This one's a Sumatran, the other one was a Guatemalan," Harry explains, silently amused by how seriously Malfoy takes his coffee. “You are a Malfoy. You are Malfoy. That's your name. You're the one obsessed with it, anyway."

"I'm not calling you Harry," Malfoy grumbles, testing the coffee with great concentration.

"No problem, _Draco,"_ Harry says, purring the name for reasons he doesn’t quite know.

"Stop that, it's weird!" Malfoy grimaces. Harry, finding that he rather likes the way emotions play out over Malfoy’s face, flashes him a huge grin and relishes in the surprised look.

"So, we're agreed." Harry says, nodding, and walks out of the room, knowing Draco will follow, and, this time, wanting him to.

 

 

******

Hermione comes over the next day, and when they both hear the tell-tale knock on Harry’s door, she frowns and rises to see who it is before Harry has time to explain.

"Who is it, 'Mione?” Harry calls to her, though he’s sure he knows already. “Someone nice, or Malfoy?"

“Malfoy,” drifts back through the house to him, and Harry merely rolls his eyes.

"Well, let him in, for fuck's sake, before he starts singing!"

 

 

******

The sixth morning Malfoy shows up is a Saturday. Harry doesn’t hear the first several hundred knocks on his door, because he’s in his Park on the highest level of the house. At some point, though, he realizes that Malfoy should be here by now, and runs downstairs slightly panicked and hoping the singing hasn’t started up yet. He’s hears Malfoy, knocks growing more impatient by the second, and he thinks it’s a good job he’s made an extra cup of coffee, just in case.

"Oh, come _on,"_ Harry groans predictably when he opens the door; although, really, he’s not very upset. Can’t have Malfoy knowing that, though.

"What?" Malfoy asks, sounding agitated, and Harry can see why, considering the hailstorm that has apparently been falling on Malfoy while Harry was upstairs. He feels slightly guilty.

"It's Saturday," Harry points out.

"That's right," Draco says, pushing past Harry into the hallway, "Saturday the first of May. You know what May is, don't you, Potter?"

_Twenty-four hours before the worst day of the year?_

"Er... too late in the year for hailstones?" Harry says instead, slamming the door shut and stifling a yawn. "And it's Harry, remember?"

"No, it's Gala month. And you'll always be Potter to me," Draco says, flashing Harry the brightest smile he’s ever seen. Suddenly, Harry isn’t tired anymore. In fact, he feels something close to... but, no. There’s no way. That part of his mind and anatomy has been asleep for far too long to wake back up at the sight of _Malfoy smiling._

Harry presumes he’s lacking more sleep than he thought, and snorts quietly. "Blanket ban on the 'Potter' while you're in my house, _Draco,"_ he says, smirking. “Don't think I can't hear you thinking it, too.”

He almost wants to laugh at the look of terrified shock on Draco’s face, but instead he just makes his way to the kitchen.

"You can't really?" Draco inquires, following him and sitting down at his now designated spot at Harry’s kitchen table.

“No, of course not. But you should have seen your face."

"Fuck you, Potter."

"Harry," He corrects. "Don't you think you'd know if I was a Legilimens? I'd be using it to find out all your secrets so I could make you leave me alone."

"Maybe you already know all my secrets," Draco says quietly.

"I doubt that," Harry mutters. He looks up from his coffee into Draco's face, and when their gaze meets and holds, Harry finds himself struggling with a parade of clashing emotions, all trying to take control. In the end, he settles on annoyed, because it's much safer than slightly attracted or unwisely curious or any of the other unwelcome things he's feeling.

"D'you have to hold your cup like that?" Harry asks, to change the subject.

Draco blinks. "What are you talking about?"

“Your cup." Harry gestures to it. "Can't you hold your cup like a normal human being?"

Draco looks confused. "I've always held my cup like this."

"I know!" Harry says, jumping up onto the counter. When he receives a questioning look, Harry wonders if maybe he shouldn't be showing concern for Malfoy. Then again, maybe Harry just doesn't want people coming to his house and becoming burn victims.

Yes. That's it.

"I thought I might get a reprieve since it's the weekend," Harry informs him, yawning into his hands and running a hand through soft-spiky hair.

Instead of talking about the Gala, Malfoy inquires, "Have you just got up?"

"I don't sleep well."

"Maybe that's because you never go anywhere. You don't have a chance to get tired properly."

"Not this again," Harry mumbles through a spike of annoyance.

"I'm going to need you well rested in time for the twenty-fifth, you know." Draco informs him, standing next to where Harry sits on the counter. "Which means you should probably stop wandering around the house in the middle of the night."

_How the bloody hell does he know that?_

"I don't—"

"Your cupboard says otherwise," Malfoy interrupts, quickly adding, "Harry."

Harry hides a smile with his hands and says, "You're right, that is weird. And I can't believe I just said you were right. And... what? My cupboard's been talking to you? My cupboard's been telling tales on me to you?"

The cupboard flaps noisily several times in succession, and Draco laughs with it, face lighting up and looking more carefree than Harry's seen before. Harry scowls, and Draco laughs at that, too.

The question, of course, is less of _why_ Malfoy has been chatting with Harry’s cabinets, and more of a _how._

Hermione’s going to be _furious._

"I guess it's a Black thing," Harry says, "Sirius left this house to me, so I'm its master, so to speak. You've got Black blood, so it must recognise that, too. Weird."

"I thought perhaps it would speak to anyone who bothered to actually listen," Draco admits.

"No. Hermione's tried enough times, believe me,” Harry smiles at a memory of her doing just that and snorts, “Typical that you should be the only other person who can understand it, now I'll never get rid of you."

“That's not true. You know exactly what to do to get rid of me," Draco says lightly, and as the words sink in, Harry feels something akin to longing in his chest. Longing for Malfoy to stay, for his companionship, if he's not mistaken, and that's not only weird, but it's also... true. Harry sighs.

"I'm not coming to your stupid Gala, Malfoy." Harry says, with more force than necessary.

"I hope my bitter disappointment isn't too upsetting for you," Draco murmurs, looking up and adding, "Potter," in his snarky way that makes Harry want to lean over and smack him upside the head.

So he does, and when Draco lets out an indignant huff and fails to hit him back, but not for lack of trying, Harry doesn’t think about the fact that this will all be over, and soon.

 

 

******

Harry doesn't sleep that night, and although he's laughing as he slams the door behind Malfoy, the realization of what the next twenty four hours means is a bitter one.

He walks up to his attic, settles under the Park sky, and sits on the floor unmoving until Tempus lets him know it’s gone midnight.

Two years ago today, the war ended.

Now is the one time a year that Harry allows himself to sit down and think about it.

Unguided feet carry Harry into Sirius’ room, a place he refrains from going on every other day. It hurts. He studies the faces in pictures on the wall of Muggle women that Sirius put up to annoy his parents, and the smiles of Sirius, Remus, James, and Wormtail. Unconsciously, Harry pulls a sour-faced look of disgust at seeing the rat there, among people Harry loves.

Turning away, Harry slowly walks over to Sirius’ bed, where he has only been once before: exactly a year ago on second May. That day, Harry had lain in the bed for hours, not moving except for shaking tears. Now, Harry lies back in Sirius’ bed. This time, he doesn’t cry. Instead, he thinks.

He thinks about Hagrid, of the first day they'd ever met, of finding out that he's a wizard. He thinks of laying limp in Hagrid's arms as the half-giant cried big, fat tears over Harry’s supposedly dead body on the walk out of the forest.

He thinks of Ron, his first real friend, the champion chess player that had saved him time and time again, always coming back, and always fighting Harry’s cause. He thinks of what Ron might be doing now. At the Weasleys’ with Hermione, Harry would guess, but he doesn't know; of course he doesn’t, because Ron never writes much in his letters.

As for Hermione, he thinks she's probably sitting beside Ron, cooking with Molly and talking about work or a new book or the war. They never talk to Harry about the war. Sometimes, they treat Harry as if he'd died in it. None of them are even aware that he did.

Harry thinks of Malfoy, and how he doesn't treat Harry like he's a war victim. Malfoy treats Harry like he's a person. An annoying person with crows-nest hair that won’t do something Malfoy considers to be simple, but then, that's a better opinion than Harry would have ever thought he'd get. Harry thinks that years ago, if someone had ever told him he would one day spend hours in Malfoy’s company without either of them throwing a hex, he’d have laughed in their face.

Harry thinks of Neville, of how Neville killed the last Horcrux; of how Neville will never get half the credit as a hero that he deserves; of how Neville is able to move on from the war and love his life, and his plants, and Harry's ex-girlfriend.

And there’s Ginny, with her red hair and her curves and her fighting spirit that was never what he needed.

He thinks about what he does need, and then he thinks of nothing, because he isn't sure what he needs, but he knows that what he _wants_  is the soft, calming nothingness of the train station.

Harry thinks of what Sirius would say if he could see him now. He thinks that maybe he doesn't want to know. Remus would understand.

Harry wonders if, had he chosen to ignore the pleas of people in the living world needing his help, and taken Dumbledore's hand to the realm of the dead back at King's Cross, his world would be calming silence, or something else entirely. He wonders if, were the former true, it would be worth leaving Voldemort for others to deal with over.

Feeling too broken to move, Harry casts a wand less _Tempus_ charm. Five-thirty in the morning. Harry gets out of bed and wipes at his eyes, although they're dry. He’s too tired to cry.

Coffee, he decides, and then he'll wait at the door for Malfoy, because Harry needs someone's company today of all days, and he's not selfish enough to pull down Hermione to suffer with him. Harry bets Malfoy is just as bad-off today as he is. Draco and that guilt of his.

Malfoy shows up earlier than usual. Harry can't help but snap a little as he opens the door. "What the hell kind of time do you call this? In, Malfoy."

Behind him on the way to the kitchen, Harry hears a hiss and a curse.

"I found your horrible cat," Malfoy says, through grit teeth.

"What do you want, a medal?"

The cupboard flaps six times in quick succession, and Harry scowls. "Yes, I'm aware of that, thank you."

_Creak, crrrreak._

Harry rubs at his face. "It's just difficult to be nice, on a day like today. You wouldn't understand. You're a cupboard."

Malfoy mumbles something about being insane in the other room. Apparently, he's finally caught on. "Having a little epiphany there, Malfoy? 'Cause you know... I could've told you that years ago."

Behind him, Harry hears footsteps coming into the room and stopping, undoubtedly at Malfoy’s usual chair near the table.

"Shut up," Malfoy says. "Look what your cat did to me."

When Harry turns around to look at the scratches on Malfoy's face, the sympathetic expression on those pale features as they regard Harry lets him know just how terrible he must look. Harry winces, and turns back to the oven, holding out his arm for Draco to see his own set of scratches, courtesy of Mrs. N. "Sorry. She's in a really foul mood today. Already got me twice."

"Perhaps she's picking up on your... tension," Malfoy says carefully.

Flurrying around on the stove, Harry mutters, "I'm not tense," and worries that his voice is showing otherwise. Or the tight line of his shoulders. Or the way his hands tremble slightly from all the caffeine surging through his system.

Draco snorts, and Harry suspects that he's noticed all these things. "Mm-hm, and I might believe you if you could look at me or stop moving for a second. Or if you didn't look like you haven't slept for a week."

“You don't look too hot yourself, Malfoy," Harry growles, more out of need for retort than anything. Although truthfully, Malfoy didn't look too well, either. 'Distressed' would be a good word to describe him this morning. And ‘malnourished,’ but that’s nothing new.

"I look fantastic, as always," Draco sniffs, and Harry snorts because of the sheer fact that it's not a complete lie, and it should be.

After a few minutes, Malfoy wonders, "What on earth are you doing with that pan?"

"Cooking, Malfoy. It's one of those strange and primitive arts that we peasants are expert in."

"Hilarious. I meant what are you cooking, and why are you cooking while I'm still here? You usually have to kick me out first.”

"I'm making you breakfast," Harry says, suddenly feeling strange about it. It wasn’t that big of a deal, surely?

"Well, that's disturbing. You won't sign one little piece of paper to say you'll attend a Gala because you hate me, but you're cooking for me?" Malfoy says, as if it’s that easy.

"I'm sick of seeing you hanging around my house looking half-starved,” Harry informs him, partly because it’s true and partly because he feels like he needs a reason now, other than _‘because I wanted to.’_ “I'm going to make you a proper breakfast and you're going to eat it. Is that clear? Do you like eggs?"

"Who do you think you are, my mother?" Malfoy snipes, “And anyway, you've no business telling me I need to eat, have you seen yourself?"

"Do you know how annoying it is when you answer questions with questions?" Harry asks, scrubbing hands over his face. Of course he hasn’t seen himself; he doesn’t even want to.

Draco replies, "I don't know, do I?" and Harry feels a smirk searing into his back.

That is why Harry’s less than pleased when Draco ducks the spatula he’s thrown just in time.

 _"Malfoy,"_ Harry cries in exasperation.

"Yes, it's clear, and yes, I like eggs.” He really has no right sounding so innocent.

Setting a plate of eggs and bacon down in front of Malfoy, Harry sits back and watches his food being consumed as if by a starving man. _Which Malfoy very well may be,_ Harry thinks, and the thought makes him strangely unhappy. However, when Malfoy finally drops his silverware looking full and pleased, Harry can’t help but feel proud of himself. He hasn’t ever seen Malfoy looks this content. It’s almost as nice as his smile.

Harry yawns into his arms, pushing away his own plate of food though it’s scarcely eaten.

"Where's Granger today?" Draco asks, with an obvious attempt at nonchalance.

Harry grimaces. Deciding to play oblivious, he examines the table in front of him and says, "I don't know. At home, probably."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant."

"Look,” Draco begins, and Harry tries his hardest not to repeatedly slam his head against the table. That’s Malfoy’s listen-to-me-now-or-I’ll-bother-you-about-it-for-the-rest-of-your-life voice, the same one he uses when speaking about the Gala. “I can no longer be arsed pretending that there's nothing different about today. Two years ago, a couple of great things happened, and a lot of fucking awful, senseless things happened. I know that, Harry. You know that. And I'm just confused about why your so-called friends aren't here with you, because you're not fine," Draco says, tone soft, concerned. Harry feels like crying. "Or are you just pulling your self-sacrificing hero act?"

Malfoy doesn’t say anything else, and Harry utilizes a few moments to pull himself together.

"Are you done?" He asks, mortified by how quiet and hollow his voice sounds, even to his own ears.

"Probably," Draco mutters, fingers twisting nervously. No duck gloves today, Harry notices slightly hysterically.

"Ron and Ginny are with their family—their brother died, remember? As for 'Mione... well, she does enough already. It's a lot of pressure to put on one person. You know all about that, don't you?" Harrys says, looking pointedly at Draco, whose grey eyes are unreadable. He adds something he’d discussed the other day with Hermione just to see how Malfoy would react. "That's why I don't use the Fidelius anymore. Hermione told me you asked about it."

"Forgive me for being surprised that you'd re-plot an Unplottable location," Malfoy sighs, reaching for his coffee. "Especially now I know how paranoid you are. Anyway, what's pressure got to do with anything? I thought you loved all that.”

"Not pressure for me, idiot. Pressure for the Secret-Keeper."

"You don't have people to trust?" Malfoy clarifies, sounding like he understands.

The thought of Malfoy not having anyone to trust only makes Harry sadder. "Of course I do. It's not that. It's the idea of the pressure that secret puts on a person. It can make them... make crazy decisions. Dangerous decisions." Harry’s not sure what’s making him say all this, especially to Draco Malfoy, whom has only just recently started being amicable. Shoving his mouth into his arms to stop from saying another word, Harry looks back down at the table.

"I know about Sirius Black," Malfoy says quietly, and Harry’s heart stops for a moment. His head shoots up and he watches Malfoy suspiciously.

"How?"

Draco’s eyes hide all emotion as he asks, "Do you really want to know?"

A scene plays in Harry’s head, a painful memory from years ago in which Draco is shaking on the Astronomy tower and black-clad murderers are piled around him, telling him to kill Dumbledore, _now, Draco, quickly._ Not for the first time, Harry wonders about Draco’s life as a Death Eater; for the first time, he finds that he cares.

But he won’t make Draco re-live those memories.

"He never forgave himself, you know,” Harry says, changing the subject, his voice muffled as his head drops back into his arms. “I don't want to do that to anyone."

"Who the hell wants you dead, Potter?" Malfoy snaps, and those few moments of him being ‘Draco’ fall away.

"Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry hisses, “You insensitive prick."

"That's better," Malfoy retorts, folding his arms across his chest. "I was worried you were far too mired in self-pity to get angry with me."

"Self-pity?" Harry asks incredulously, _furiously._ "How fucking dare you? You know nothing about what happened that day. Nothing. So just shut the fuck up."

As if Malfoy has any right to come here, into Harry’s _home,_ sit at his table and drink his coffee and act like he knows Harry at _all._

"Fine, so I don't!" Malfoy practically shouts. "How is anyone supposed to help you if you don't fucking tell them? How do you expect me to—"

"I don't expect you to do anything, Malfoy. I don't want your help! I never asked you to come here. I don't want you. Today is hard enough without having you sitting here and asking me stupid questions!" Harry yells, knocking his chair back and scrambling to his feet. Staring down at the other man, Harry is seconds away from punching him in the face.

"Then stop pretending everything's fine!" Malfoy says, rising to his feet. "People died. Let's talk about that, shall we?"

 _People died._ Remus Tonks Fred Snape Voldemort _Harry_ —

"I died," Harry says without meaning to, voice gravelly. Anxiously, he runs his hands through his hair. No one knows that. Not even Hermione knows that.

But now, _Draco Malfoy_ knows that.

"What?" Malfoy gasps.

"I... " Harry starts, then doesn’t know how to finish. Malfoy stares at him intensely, and Harry suddenly feels like one of the ants he used to watch squirm under Dudley’s magnifying glass. "Like you said, a lot of people died that day. One of them was me."

"We're not talking... metaphorically here, are we, Potter?" Draco asks, keeping the eye contact but looking nervous. "Because if we are, I think I'll..." He doesn’t finish the sentence.

"No,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

Malfoy eyes him anxiously for a moment. "Er, good."

Harry snorts quietly, feeling the tension in the kitchen sliding away, as well as his anger. Slowly, he slides to the floor, drawing his knees up and looking at his scratched hands. "Did you just ask me if I died metaphorically? Only you, Malfoy."

"Well," Malfoy begins, and Harry knows he’s in for a lot of questioning. The thought doesn’t bother him as much as it did a few minutes ago; he’s too tired to care anymore, and he supposes the cat’s out of the bag, anyway.

Malfoy drops down onto the floor a few feet away, and Harry sees small puffs of dust rise up from the floor in his peripheral vision.

"You died," Malfoy confirms softly, looking at the ground.

"Yes.”

"And came back."

Harry sighs. "Yes."

"Care to elaborate?" Malfoy asks, glancing up from the floor and staring at Harry with wide, grey eyes that are devoid of anything less than kindness. "I know it's me and everything, but it rather seems like a good opportunity. And I shan't lie to you, I am curious."

"In a minute, Malfoy," Harry murmurs, closing his eyes and resting his head against the cabinet behind him. On the one hand, he’s already told Malfoy about dying. He has made the leap and shared that fact, and now he might as well go into it further. It might even be gratifying; Hermione is always telling Harry there’s scientific proof that talking about things makes people feel better.

But on the other hand, it’s still _Malfoy_...

Which, Harry has to cede, doesn’t mean half of the bad things it used to.

And strangely, Harry finds himself, for the first time, wanting to talk about those moments. It had always seemed terrifying, opening up, confessing what had happened in the Forbidden Forest that night; Harry had considered it something that he would keep to himself, a burden that didn’t need to be shared with other people. There had been several occasions, in the first few months following the war, when Harry had almost told Ron and Hermione. But each time, he had decided against it. In those days, it was because the risk of the _Prophet_ finding out and hounding him about it was too severe. Since then, it seemed as though dropping a bomb like _“I died”_ would plummet everyone back into the depressed mindset they had all harboured during the war.

Harry has always thought that it would be more fair for everyone if they didn’t have to share the weight of his truth. But here is Draco Malfoy, eager to know more, and Harry realises that maybe this would help take some weight off both of their shoulders.

Still not glancing up, Harry says quietly: "It isn't as frightening as you'd think, dying."

"I try not to think about it," is Malfoy’s whispered response.

Harry looks up to see Malfoy tracing little lightning bolts into his dusty kitchen floor, and snorts lightly. "I thought you wanted to know what happened."

"I do. As far as I'm concerned the whole thing is shrouded in mystery, but curiosity hasn't exactly served me well in the past." Draco sighs. "Bugger it, tell me anyway. Caution is for peasants and Hufflepuffs."

A laugh catches in Harry’s throat, and Malfoy looks up, startled. Clear eyes catch on his, and Harry’s heart skips slightly—though, really, it’s been erratic since he’d first admitted his death. "You know, Malfoy, you can be quite funny when you want to. Shame you have no idea when's an appropriate time for it."

“'Appropriate' is a horrible word. So much condescension and control and pettiness all squashed into four little syllables."

"You'd know," Harry comments.

"I would," Malfoy agrees. "Now come on, you were telling me about your death."

Harry sighs; frowns; takes a deep breath. "After he killed me..."

"The Dark Lord?"

"Voldemort," Harry says, barely resisting rolling his eyes.

"Yes, him. I'm not saying it. Continue."

"It's just a name, Malfoy. I'm the one he murdered. Anyway, the point isn't the grisly details. The point is...” Harry twists his fingers and searches for words, “the train station.”

"You've lost me. And it wouldn't be—"

"Shut up,” Harry mutters, and he can’t hold the eye contact any longer. "After I died, I found myself at King's Cross station... only not... and then Dumbledore was there, and I had to...” Harry sighs, images of whiteness and Dumbledore and a cleanKing’s Cross dancing in his head, “decide what to do."

"Decide?" Malfoy probes softly.

"Whether to stay there... to stay dead... or to go back and try to save more people." Saying it out loud isn’t as scary as Harry had once thought it would be.

"You were given the choice to come back from the dead?" Malfoy asks, surprised.

Taking his fogging glasses off, Harry looks back at Malfoy, who is sitting close enough to not be too blurry. "Forgive me if I don't go into details, Malfoy, but don't worry, it was a one-time, circumstantial kind of thing. I'm not immortal, if that's what you're worried about."

"Glad we got that cleared up," Malfoy murmers faintly, looking away. "So, you came back. You saved lots of lives. You defeated the Dark Lord. I'd say you made a good call."

Hearing Malfoy say aloud what Harry has been trying to convince himself for the last year makes him uncomfortable. Shifting around on the floor, Harry sighs. "And there's the thing, Malfoy. I'm not sure that I did.”

"What exactly do you mean?" Malfoy asks, panicked, and Harry wants to bite his own tongue.

"Chill out, for fuck's sake," Harry snaps, suddenly agitated that he’s said so much. Malfoy’s still looking at the ground, and as the last thing Harry needs is a story getting out about the ‘Suicidal Saviour.’ "I'm not saying I want to die _now._ I'm not suicidal, all right? You can stop looking like you want to make a run for it, although you know I wouldn't stop you."

"Well, excuse me for... " Draco begins, and then coughs clumsily, seemingly at a loss for words. "Go on."

"Right," Harry says, finding an awkward Malfoy both unsettling and... interesting. "The point is, that place... that place where I was dead... where I was waiting... it was peaceful and full of light and... calm, like nothing I've ever experienced. And Dumbledore said 'pity the living' and did all that stuff that he does to make you do the right thing... you know. And I came back, and I did the thing that everyone expected me to do, that everyone needed me to do. And..." Harry pauses to huff out a breath, knowing that he’s getting to the part where Malfoy himself comes into play. "And it never stopped. Everyone wanted something. Everyone wanted to know something, every minute of every day, and all the light and the peace and the calm was gone, and my life belonged to everyone I saved and everyone I didn't and I never fucking asked for any of it."

"That's why you don't go outside," Malfoy murmurs, "This is your... what is it? A sanctuary? A hiding place? A waiting room?"

Harry smiles slightly, for the irony of Malfoy's understanding if nothing else. “Waiting is a good word."

"Waiting for what?" Malfoy wonders, and Harry sighs, questions beginning to wear him out.

Though, that is a good question.

"I don't know. I'll know it when I see it, though."

“All right. And I'm guessing you're fully aware of the irony of confessing all of this to one of those awful people who wants something from you... something that you're qualified to give because of everything that happened two years ago today?"

Shaking his head slightly, Harry rubs his eyes. Of course he’s aware of that. And even though Harry knows that if he truly didn’t want to tell it, Malfoy wouldn’t have gotten this out of him on his dying day, he replies "I didn't plan on confessing anything, Malfoy. You irritated it out of me."

"Well, if your friends had been here—"

"My friends don't know," Harry snaps, suddenly embarrassed, because Malfoy didn’t need to know that. "The only people that know what I've just told you are in this room."

Malfoy lifts his head fast enough to have it clang against the stove behind him. "Are you out of your _mind?_ " He practically shouts, and Harry feels a headache blooming behind his eyes.

"No more so than usual. Actually, a little more so than usual. I'm not depressed, you know. I'm not like this every day, as you may have noticed, seeing as you've spent more time with me this week than everyone else put together. It's a bad day today. It's a hard day. On this day, I spend more time than usual debating the wisdom of that decision... the rest of the time, I just live with the consequences."

"Or avoid them," Malfoy says pointedly, rubbing the back of his head, possibly because he, too, is developing a headache. "You never go outside. You never see anyone. Except for me, and we both know there's very little point talking about the Gala today." Malfoy assures, "I shall resume that topic of discussion tomorrow morning."

"Oh, good," Harry retorts, rolling his eyes. "I'll look forward to that. And anyway, I see people. Hermione comes round every couple of days, Ginny and her mum if there's some special occasion. Ron... well, he's pretty busy with Auror training these days..."

"I'm sure," Malfoy sneers, distaste for Ron showing through clearly. "So, your only social interaction is with Granger and a crack team of Weasels? No wonder you're turning into such a misanthrope."

"Said the pot as he called the kettle black," Harry murmurs.

"I am not a misanthrope, Potter, I have dozens of friends," Malfoy declares.

Harry snorts, "Yeah right, Malfoy. That might be more believable if you weren't spending all of your precious time getting attacked by my cat.”

Malfoy starts, as if lost in thought. "Hmm?"

Harry sighs, leaning down to examine (and pick at) his own cat attack-related scratches. "I was just saying that I don't believe you. If you had dozens of friends, you wouldn't have spent every day this week and most of your weekend with me."

Malfoy doesn't respond, and Harry feels the grey eyes boring through him. After a few moments, Malfoy changes the subject, asking, "So, where are all these journalists that are supposedly baying for your blood?"

"Too many jinxes on this place for them to dare knocking at the door... at least, more than once," Harry murmurs, mentally thanking Hermione for her charm work. "It's clever magic."

"It let me pass."

"Not clever enough, then, apparently," Harry says, though he's slightly amused. "And anyway, I'm not really newsworthy unless I actually step outside and do something for them to report on."

"They don't camp outside your door?" Malfoy asks. "I thought they would."

"They used to," Harry admits, scrunching his nose at those memories. "They gave up." Then, without wanting to or meaning to, he changes the subject back to, "You don't really have dozens of friends, do you?"

Malfoy sighs, "I don't suppose it's as though you can tell anyone, is it? I have one mad old bint who thinks she's my mother, one incompetent house-elf, and... well, you."

Harry wonders what Ron and Hermione are doing right now. Sighing, he murmurs, "I'm not your friend, Malfoy,”

"I know. I just wanted my list to sound longer. In fact, two things aren't even really a list," Draco admits, and Harry almost wants to smirk.

Until the words really sink in, and then all he feels is sadness. "How many of them left the country?"

Draco pauses. "A lot."

This is what Harry came back for, then. Friends that leave each other as soon as things get difficult.

"So, they all ran away from their problems," Harry confirms, askance.

"Yeah. Just like you're doing."

Harry glances up, scowling. "That's not fair."

"It's true, though,” Malfoy opines.

Clicking his tongue, Harry gets to his feet as quickly as his lethargic body will carry him. "I'm making coffee."

  "You do that." Malfoy says, bones cracking as he pushes off the ground to get up. It's very interesting, Harry decides, seeing Malfoy less than graceful. He thinks that maybe he likes the change. It reminds him less of school-Malfoy.

In fact, non-snotty Malfoy is something Harry can add to the ‘pros’ side in the pros and cons list he has running in his head on whether or not he should have come back from King’s Cross.

"Do you want some?" Harry asks, gesturing to the coffee maker.

"What do you think?"

As Harry busies himself making coffee, Draco begins an ongoing rant about his parents, house elf, and job. Harry finds himself listening.

"This is the same person, mind you, who forces me into those terrible duck gloves. So you see what I have to put up with."

Harry cracks a smile for the first time all day, and it doesn't even feel fake. "I like the duck gloves," he says, and the smile grows a little at Malfoy's startled expression. "The _gloves,_ Malfoy. I still don't like you, so don't worry."

Suspecting that Draco doesn't believe him about the latter part, Harry quickly changes the topic. "Anyway, why not just get rid of the house-elf if it can't do anything right? It would earn you points in Hermione's book, if nothing else."

As Draco snorts and goes into another tirade, Harry finds himself watching pale arms gesture expressively, and long fingers settle around the bottom of a coffee cup held palm.

He’s still far too thin, though.

"Cooking again, Potter?”

"Shut up," Harry says sternly, grabbing things from the cabinets as he decides on their next meal. "You're going to eat this and then leave, because I've a pounding headache and I need to sleep."

Draco watches him quietly for a moment, before saying slowly, "So, if you have a pounding headache..."

"Oh, go on and tell your stories, Malfoy. Don't let me get in the way."

Smiling brilliantly and making Harry blink twice, Draco continues on from his previous escapade, this time from behind Harry as he works over the stove. "I, for one, don't know how waking me up at five-thirty in the morning is supposed to help, and honestly, I'm quite sure mother rises hours earlier than usual just to ensure that her stupid owls come pecking upon my window before a humanly decent time..."

Over at the stove, Harry thinks he wouldn’t be surprised in Narcissa Malfoy done just that.

 

 

******

Harry goes the bed the moment Draco leaves, and spends the next ten hours in the most dream-free and easy sleep he’s had in longer than he cares to remember.

 _Two years ago, a couple of great things happened, and a lot of fucking awful, senseless things happened,_ Malfoy had said. And now he knows the truth of all the things that occurred. And now Harry knows the truth of something entirely different:

Draco Malfoy is a good person.

He doesn’t have Gryffindor courage or Hufflepuff kindness (Harry suspects that if Draco ever did, they’d both go into shock), but he was brave enough to scold Harry into admitting the truth, and nice enough to listen to it with nothing more sinister than intrigue.

Harry suspects that he’s got a soft spot for Malfoy.

He also suspects it might be a bit more than that.

Gripping his stomach—because the anxiety Harry’s feeling is very similar to like, and the butterflies fluttering around his stomach are creaky from disuse—Harry walks upstairs to sit below his sparkling park sky. Sitting on the carpet and watching the stars thoughtlessly seems a much better idea than thinking about any new developments in his acquaintanceship/ friendship/ whatever the fuck it is with Malfoy.

 

 

*****

"You look healthy," Draco comments, hours later when he shows up at Grimmauld Place once again.

Harry takes it as a compliment and, turning away to hide a tiny smirk, murmurs, "Gosh, thanks, Malfoy." That morning, he’d woken up feeling more rested than he had in longer than he cared to remember. Since before he was Avada Kedavra’d that second time, he suspects, and he knows why, too: getting the confession of what he had to do to save the world off his chest was more freeing than he ever would have thought. He had even tried not to think about it much after Malfoy left, because he hadn’t been sure how to feel about it, but now… After hours of excellent sleep in which no old ghosts haunted his dreams, Harry felt that maybe it wouldn’t kill him to shower and clean up a little.

"I meant in comparison to how terrible you usually look," Malfoy sneers, and Harry rolls his eyes. "Let's proceed directly to coffee, shall we?"

"Who died and left you a superiority complex?" Harry asks, testing for a reaction.

Draco’s eyes go wide, and they stare at each other for a few silent moments until Harry shrugs and lends a half-smile. "I think it's only tasteless to joke about a death if it's... well, permanent."

Snorting, Draco says, "As if I'd worry about offending your delicate sensibilities. Seriously, coffee?"

 _"Seriously,"_ Harry mocks, pushing past him to get to the kitchen. "I'll give you the whole pot if you don't mention the word 'Gala' all day."

It's a poor attempt at a reprieve. Draco talks about the Gala until Harry suspects that even he's getting sick of it. By the end of the day, Harry is dangerously low on good coffee.

 

 

******

Days later, two things are becoming apparent: A) Harry hasn't finished a book in weeks, his old habits shoved aside to make room for Draco-time, and B) Draco Malfoy is not a quitter.

"You do realise that coming here every day is interrupting my own schedule?" Harry points out one day.

"Do whatever you'd normally do, then," Draco says, giving a pointed look that lets Harry know just how little concern he has for Harry's 'schedule.' "I'm intrigued to see the thrilling programme that is a day in the life of Harry Potter. Or do you think it might be too exciting for me?"

"I don't know, Draco, I wouldn't want to over-stimulate you. Who knows what could happen?" Harry says sarcastically, taking his favourite seat in the living room and putting on his most convincing scowl.

"Funny," Malfoy replies, sinking down into the other armchair and picking up one of the trashy celebrity magazines that Harry flat-out refuses to admit to reading. From the look on his face, it’s obvious that he isn’t comfortable with being on a first-name basis, and that’s a large part of the reason that Harry dropped ‘Malfoy’ in the first place. "I don't need to be entertained.”

"My arse," Harry snorts. "I'll ask Ginny for some more of those magazines, shall I?"

Draco ignores him in favour of placing his steaming coffee cup in the center of his palm and burying his nose further in the magazine.

"Draco?"

"Give me a minute, Potter. It's Gala time as soon as I've finished my coffee, and I know how much you enjoy that. Janice has made me some lovely visual aids today, too," Draco informs him, sipping at his drink. Slowly, he places the cup back on his palm.

"Will you just use a fucking coaster?" Harry explodes, unable to hold back any longer.

Pale fingers curl tighter around the bottom of the cup. "What? Why?"

"Because you're going to burn your sodding hand," Harry snaps, turning his glare towards the fire.

"Didn't know you cared, Potter," Draco murmurs, and Harry turns back to see a smirk lifting his lips.

His lips. Oh.

Harry looks away again.

"I don't. Shut up. And I'm not coming to your Gala, so tell Janice I'm sorry she wasted her time," Harry says grumpily.

"Why not?" Draco asks, for what is probably the hundredth time.

"Because it's not safe," Harry says truthfully. Nowhere other than this house is safe from the pain, or the prejudices, or the _Daily_ sodding _Prophet_.

"What isn't?"

"Any of it. The people. The places. You can't make me," Harry scowls.

Draco's smirk comes back. "As if I would."

"Just saying," Harry mumbles, getting agitated. "Hermione's been trying for the past twelve months and she's a lot smarter and nicer and stubborner than you are."

"I don't think 'stubborner' is a word, you know," Draco obnoxiously points out.

"Oh, god. Will you fuck off?"

"I was only trying to read my magazine," Draco says innocently.

"So, this is your plan? If you practically move your snarky, infuriating arse into my house, then I'll want to go out all of a sudden? Is that your master-plan? Annoying me into socialising?" Harry glares harder, taking long chugs of burning coffee.

"It is if it's working. Now be quiet, unless you'd like to hear about how Grendel from the Weird Sisters 'got her look'."

Harry, who has already read that article twice, tips his head back on the sofa and grumbles, "I hate you, Malfoy."

"Apparently," Draco says conversationally, "it's all about layering. Isn't that fascinating?"

"Thrilling. You may have just out-gayed yourself."

It's out of his mouth before Harry knows what he's saying, but, like most of his impulsive escapades, he doesn’t do much to take it back. Instead, he lifts his chin towards the ceiling, amused as he feels Draco’s shock reverberate around the room.

They haven't discussed sexuality ever before, and Harry wonders if he's supposed to know about Draco's preferences. Although, truthfully, it's not exactly well-hidden. Even in Hogwarts, there had been signs—not rumours, of course, because too many people had been afraid of Malfoy back then to spread them—that Draco preferred men, like the way he leaned more into their touch and the way he looked slightly queasy when a variety of Slytherin girls—Pansy Parkinson in the lead—threw themselves at him. Harry’s suspicions had begun in sixth year, when he’d spent most of his time watching Malfoy’s every move, but he hadn’t given them much thought until Draco had showed up more recently at his house. Ever since then, he’d noticed that actually spending time with Draco wouldn’t leave anyone unsure as to which way he swung.

More obvious than anything, no straight man in his right mind would wear bright green duck gloves out in public.

Harry thinks that maybe that's why he likes the duck gloves so much: they're an outward sign that he and Draco have more in common than either originally thought.

Feeling eyes on him, Harry tries not to smirk, but finds that he can't help it.

"You may be right," Draco says after a long of a long silence. "Now, would you like to see Janice's visual aids or would you like to hear about Celestina Warbeck's tragic childhood?"

Heart beating faster at the admission, Harry throws a pillow. Smiling wickedly, Draco reads the article.

 

 

******

After Malfoy leaves, Harry sends an owl to Hermione asking her to stop by later if she can. Then he pads around the house for a few hours, uncovering mirrors and stacking magazines that were unceremoniously thrown around the living room. Grabbing _Witch Weekly_ —one of the copies that hadn’t been read to him earlier—and collapsing into an armchair, Harry has every intention of curling up and reading about The Weird Sisters’ new family of kneazles.

The moment he sits down, those intentions shift rapidly.

This is the armchair Draco had been sitting in earlier, and it still smells like him.

Feeling like the world’s biggest fool, Harry leans back against the chair and sniffs.

Draco Malfoy smells _good._

And not like expensive cologne, either, but like _himself,_ soft and musky and clean, with hints of spicy scents that he must put in his hair and wash his body with—soaping long fingers down delicate, pale skin in the bath, massaging it into his shoulders and chest and abdomen, slowly sliding his hands lower, lower, lower until he finally reaches light-coloured curls of pubic hair…

Sighing into the fabric, Harry closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the chair, breathing in.

There’s no real use denying the hard-on that is growing steadily in Harry’s denims. It’s the first one he’s had in months, sure, but it isn’t as though he’s forgotten the feeling. Shakily wrapping a hand around his cock, Harry decides that it’s perfectly acceptable to take advantage of the situation.

Not thinking about Draco Malfoy, though, turns out to be impossible.

 

 

******

Hermione purposefully frowns at the coffee cup in Harry's hand, shifting on the soft carpet underneath the Park sky.

“I do hope that doesn't mean you're not sleeping," she comments, flicking a page of the _Quibbler_ that is sitting on the floor in front of her.

“Have been, actually," Harry informs her, smiling a little. In fact, he’s been sleeping rather well. Probably because of the exhausting re-awakening of his libido.

But Harry won’t think about that now, because Hermione is here, and that’s just weird.

Hermione looks up from the article, and Harry shifts around nervously. She’s giving him the look of someone who knows he’s not telling her something. Harry hopes she hasn’t become a Legillimens without informing him about it.

“Harry,” Hermione says after a moment of thoughtfully narrowed eyes, “You’ve been smiling so much today.”

Oh. Just that, then. Harry breathes a sigh of relief. He really doesn’t want Hermione knowing which blond-haired git has been occupying all his thinking time lately.

“Have I been?” Harry says absently, picking at a scratch on his arm.

“Yes, you have. Why is that, do you think?”

Brows knitting, Harry looks up. “Because I want to smile more? I don’t know, ‘Mione. Is it really such a big deal?”

Shaking her head in what looks like exasperation, Hermione huffs, “I guess not.”

Harry leans back to look at the moving clouds, satisfied, but he can feel Hermione’s sharp gaze still on him. He tries to pretend it doesn’t make him uncomfortable.

Then her next question takes him completely off-guard.

“Have you found the something yet, then? The thing you’re waiting for?”

“Not yet, I haven’t,” Harry says slowly, furrowing his brow and staring at Hermione. “Is there something you know that I don’t? Only, you’ve got that look about you that says you’ve just figured something out.”

Hermione merely shakes her head again, muttering under her breath something that sounds suspiciously like _‘boys.’_

They sit together in silence for a while, Hermione humming—and occasionally snorting in disbelief—as she flips through her copy of the _Quibbler,_ and Harry regarding the ceiling with calmness.

Harry thinks of the first real conversation he ever had with him, back when those letters were the bane of his existence, and Draco was still Malfoy. “I was thinking I might show Draco. He said something to me once about going to the park. I didn’t tell him at the time that I already have one.”

Clucking her tongue, Hermione says, “You have mentioned that.”

Harry glances over at her; Hermione looks caught between exasperation and bemusement. “You’re acting a bit weird today, Hermione, did you know that?”

Hermione shrugs. “Pot, kettle. Anyway, Harry… it’s probably completely useless to say, but if you were to just go to the actual _park,_ we wouldn’t need to spend so much time staring at the ceiling here—“

“I’m not going outside, Hermione.”

“I bet you would if _Draco_ told you to,” Hermione mutters under her breath.

“Oi, I heard that! And for the record, he has; obviously, I didn’t listen to him either.”

“It’s a bit weird, you know, when you call him Draco.” Hermione’s voice breaks a long silence.

Harry frowns, “That’s his name.”

“Yes,” Hermione says, not raising her head from the page she’s ostensibly reading, “But you never felt the need to honour that before.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, Harry says, “Things change, Hermione. Draco—Malfoy—he’s not like he was in school. He’s…” Harry pauses, shrugs, and tries to find the right words. “It’s not so bad, him coming here.”

“Not so bad,” Hermione repeats slightly disbelievingly, but doesn’t say anything else. She does rub her temples, however, as if she’s developing a headache.

 

 

*****

Hermione shows up again the next day, this time earlier and in time to catch Draco. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think she was keeping an eye on him.

Draco sits on the opposite side of the kitchen, chatting with the cupboards as Harry and Hermione have an in-depth discussion about house elf rights, something Hermione has been struggling for since she first joined the Ministry, without much avail.

“No one understands how difficult it must be for them!” Hermione rants, sipping Harry’s Earl Grey, which she prefers to his coffee (even the good Guatemalan one). “Working all the time, and with no breaks or anything. It’s slavery, only worse because of the way they hurt themselves.” A weird gleam coming into her eyes, she asks. “What do you think, Draco?”

Startled, Draco looks up, seeming generally confused as to why Hermione is asking him. He glances at Harry. Harry shrugs.

“Well,” Draco begins slowly, and Harry hopes with all his heart that Hermione and the pure-blooded prat aren’t about to have a massive dispute in his kitchen, “I think that as long as the elves are happy, we shouldn’t push them... right?”

Both men hold their breaths, awaiting Hermione’s reaction. She cocks her head, apparently thinking about it closely. After a moment of thoughtful expression, she asks curiously,

“When would you say your house elves have been most content?”

Draco opens and closes his mouth several times, as if not sure how to safely answer. Harry finds himself smiling into his coffee cup.

“There is a new law being passed,” Hermione continues, sounding genuinely friendly, “Regarding the amount of time house elves have to work, in proportion to the amount of time they ever have off. The law is attempting to help give elves more free time, and I’m wondering—to help strengthen my argument, of course—in your experience, what are common house elf hobbies?”

This time when a stricken Draco opens his mouth, it stays like that for a few moments, still no sound emitting.

Harry can’t help but laugh outright.

 

 

******

Sunday has always been Harry’s favourite day to receive mail, mostly because it reminds him of Uncle Vernon having a panic attack. One Sunday, he and Draco are sitting in the living room when a scrawny owl flies in through a window in the room he’d taken Draco in to get Esme on that first day and settles on the coffee table in front of them.

Draco cocks an eyebrow. “Well, that isn’t Hermione’s owl. So you do have other friends, after all.”

Harry flips him two fingers and reaches for the note, petting a twitchy Pigwidgeon II as he does.

“It’s from Ron,” he says, finding it difficult to hide his excitement. It’s the first letter from Ron in over six weeks.

“Hmm,” Draco hums, but doesn’t say anything.

Harry narrows his eyes. “Don’t give me that. He’s been busy.”

“Right.”

Opening his letter, Harry smiles.

After the first glance at the note, his smile fades.

_Harry,_

_Good to hear from you. Malfoy still sounds like a git. Don’t get obsessed again, that was weird for everybody. Hermione and I are going on vacation to France soon, for eight weeks! I saved up for it and everything. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about it._

_Ron_

The paper crumples in his hands. Harry must have sent at least seven letters to Ron, and this is his reply—less than ten lines, including his name and Ron’s signature.

Harry’s fist clench, and heat rises to his face. Is that what he’s worth? A reminder not to  get obsessed again because it would be _weird for everybody,_ and the unsaid information that Ron doesn’t have time for Harry, not even an hour, but he can go away with Hermione for eight weeks with no problems.

And, really, Harry has no right to feel bad, because it’s his fault for staying locked up in his house. But Ron had left him during the Triwizard Tournament, and in the forest before the end of the war, and now…

“Potter.”

Harry snaps back to the present; Draco is staring at him from his armchair.

“Potter, you look like you’re about the cry. Or punch something. Just so you know, there’s a cat somewhere around here that would be a perfect target for that.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Harry growls, knowing that he shouldn’t take his anger out on Malfoy and doing it anyway.

Draco frowns, glances down, and takes a deep breath. “Harry,” he says, and even in his anger, Harry appreciates the use of his first name. “Don’t.”

Harry stares at him disbelievingly. “Don’t _what?”_

“Get all… angry and tense and brooding and then spend the next week hating everything,” Draco elaborates, exhaling loudly.

Harry splutters, “I don’t—“

“Yes, you do. Merlin’s sake, you have before, and it’s nothing if not irritating for me. Just…” Draco gets the weird expression on his face again, somewhere between pity, concern, annoyance, and something distinctly _Draco_ that can make anyone want to get their shit together, “Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

Harry looks away. He can’t stand to see that expression on Draco’s face, and he can’t stand to hear those words; he can’t stand any of it, because he knows it’s all true.

Snorting quietly, Harry asks, “When did you become the logical one?”

“I’ve always been the logical one,” Draco informs him. “I’m the one that actually goes outside, remember?” Pursing his lips, he adds softly, “And I’ve had enough friends over the years that stopped caring when things got difficult.”

After that, they don’t say anything for a while. Harry doesn’t trust himself to speak. Draco’s unexpected confession has taken all the anger out of him, and instead he feels guilty, thankful, and strangely comforted all at once. When they finally speak, it’s Draco who initiates it, and it’s to comment on an article from a magazine about Gladia the Gorgeous’ hideous new dress robes.

That night is the first time that, when Harry is lying alone in his bed that night, he readily admits to himself that he really likes Draco.

He even whispers Draco’s name as he comes into his fist.

 

 

*****

"You're late," Harry accuses one day, when Malfoy comes an hour or two later than usual. Harry would never admit it out loud, but he had been worried that Malfoy wouldn't show up at all; worried that he'd found a different way to get Harry to go to the Gala, one that didn't include seeing him every day. "Mrs. N and I had to eat your bacon."

"Sorry," Draco says, shedding an expensive coat. "But, hey, your next door neighbour's painted his house purple, did you see?"

"Really?" Harry asks, intrigued. It was a long way coming, he supposes. Those people were always a bit odd.

He looks out the door at the house, confirming that, indeed, it is a dark fuchsia. When he turns back around, Draco looks thoroughly distressed.

"Draco?" Harry asks, concerned. Surely the hideous house couldn't be that taxing on a good mood? Perhaps whatever kept him this morning made him upset before he even got to Grimmauld Place.

Draco doesn't say anything, just stares at Harry as if through some deep internal conflict.

"Oi, fuckface!" Harry finally shouts, desperate to get Draco's attention, to make sure he's not having a stroke. Harry had been feeding him a lot of bacon lately; those things were known to happen.

It works. Draco's eye blink rapidly, and he pulls himself back together. Harry wonders what the fuck that was about.

"Fuckface?" Draco says. "There's no need for that."

"I was just trying to get your attention. You looked like you were having a seizure."

When Draco breaks into what might be a 'sorry for being a weirdo again' grin, Harry can't stop his answering smile. Oh, but he loves the way Draco looks when he's awkward like this. Or happy. Or content, enthusiastic, confused...

"I'm fine," Draco says, following Harry into the kitchen.

"You're fucked in the head," Harry corrects, heating oil in the frying pan and tossing in bacon. He sings, "Fucked, in the head," as he prods around bacon on the stove.

"Not going to argue with that," Draco mumbles, and Harry decides it's best to just ignore his sporadic weirdness.

 

 

******

Somehow, it gets to the point when Harry misses Draco as soon as he's gone, and relishes the moment he arrives.

Not that he would ever admit this. Ever. Under any circumstances. Under Veritaserum, even.

Draco had brought him some French pastries the other day, in an effort to 'show you, Potter, exactly what you are missing while you're kept up in this house all day.' Harry saw through him, and easily. Malfoy wasn't half as mean or selfish as he wanted people to believe.

The other day, Harry had read to him from an old book on Muggle diseases, and Draco had been so thoroughly confused that Harry had to stop multiple times in fits of laughter.

"They're Muggles, Malfoy. They can't just drink a skin-regrowing potion and be done with it."

"Muggles are weird," Draco had said, pouting and with no real bite. His view on Muggles has changed some, since his years at Hogwarts, and Harry can’t help himself from appreciating the humorous, maliceless confusion that has taken its place.

Now, sitting alone in the Park, Harry goes over these events in his head, a tiny small on his face.

Merlin, his stupid crush on Draco is growing more every day.

As long as Draco never finds out, everything will be fine. The Gala will happen, Harry won't attend, and then either Draco will be so furious about coming to Grimmauld Place every day for no gain that he’ll never come back, or he'll stop coming by, anyway, as soon as he doesn’t need Harry anymore.

Harry assures himself that these are the only options, even as his chest aches at the thought.

He'll get over it, eventually. Malfoy leaving isn't that big of a deal, and Harry will be fine.

 

 

******

 There's a strange tension around Draco the next day, from the moment Harry opens the door. His eyes are darting around, trying not to settle on Harry’s face, and his ever-expressive face is looking distinctly guilty.

Harry doesn’t ask until they’ve settled into the kitchen.

“So what’s wrong, then?” He questions, and Draco looks up from the table, startled.

“I... nothing,” Draco replies, eyes wide.

“You are a terrible liar, Draco Malfoy.”

“I’m not lying!” Draco says, indignant. After a few moments, his face falls. “Nothing is wrong, per se.”

Harry snorts. “Then why do you look as if Voldemort’s just risen from the dead?”

Draco doesn’t even flinch at the name, and that’s how Harry knows the situation is very bad, indeed.

“Er,” Draco starts, and then, taking a deep breath, “I told President Cholmondely that you’d be coming. To the Gala, that is.”

Harry waits for the punch line. It doesn’t come.

"Why,” he says, and it’s not a question but a choked statement.

Draco answers it anyway. “I didn’t have much of a choice...”

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Harry rages, blood boiling as what Draco is saying sinks in. “Of course you had a choice. We always have choices.” _I chose to let you into my house, I chose to give you all my coffee, I chose to listen to stories about your stupid life, I chose to be an idiot and get feelings for you._

Kicking his chair back, Harry stands up, pacing the kitchen. So this was it, then, the moment he should have expected. The moment where Draco reminds Harry that, yes, he has been coming to his house every day for the _Gala,_ not for snarking contests or trashy magazine reading time or to make fun of Mrs Norris.

Harry had thought their time together meant more than what Draco pretended it did. Apparently, Harry had been the one pretending that it meant anything at all.

“She said she was going to fire me, and make sure I never got another job in charity, and... Potter, I’m sorry.” Malfoy sounds sorry, too, but it isn’t enough.

“I don’t _care!_ Why would you _do_ that?" Harry’s hands find their way into his hair, and he pulls hard.

"Because I'm fucking desperate, Potter! You know how important this is. I panicked, all right?"

 _Malfoy_ panicked? Malfoy isn’t the one now expected to leave everything comfortable to him for a fucking charity ball. A charity ball where there would be speech-giving and expensive-food-eating and people looking at him like some sort of special race of alien that will do anything they ask.

The thought of it makes Harry wrap his arms around his torso, a protective barrier against the world.

"No, not all right! I'm not coming. I can't!"

"What the hell am I supposed to do, then?" Draco shouts, clutching the edge of the table hard.

"Tell her you lied. Tell her you made a mistake. Tell her you were on drugs. I don't care, just fix it," Harry says, throwing his arms into the air.

"I can't," Draco says. "I'll lose my job."

"Why is your stupid job more important than my safety?" Harry asks, pausing in front of Malfoy and looking him dead in the eye.

"It's _not,"_ Malfoy says, getting agitated as if he has the right to. "You're such a drama queen. I know you don't like it... and I'm sorry. I don't like it either. But I... I suppose I thought we could work something out. I thought we were friends, and..."

 _Friends._ Oh. They had been friends, recently, talking and laughing and smiling, but...

Well. Draco was a Slytherin, and Harry isn’t stupid.

"You can't guilt me into this, Draco. If you think I'm holding out on you just to punish you, then you're more self-centred than I thought. I can't do it, okay? I _can't."_

Harry wants to cry. For the first time since second May, he wants to cry, and that would not do.  He wishes Draco would leave, wishes he would just leave and not come back until the stupid Gala was over and they could talk about something else.

But Harry knows that after the Gala, Draco won’t be coming back anyway, and that makes him even more upset and infinitely more angry.

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, Draco begins softly, "It's at my house. I can set up a direct, secure Floo connection, just for the night. Or we can Apparate right into the Manor grounds. You'd only have to step fifty feet out of your front door. As for the Gala itself, all you'd have to do is—"

"No."

Draco looks a little bit like he wants to cry, too. "You can't build a life around being safe and calm all the time. That's not how it works."

 _It was working fine until you got here!_ Harry wants to shout, but instead he just says, "It can work that way if I want it to."

"You're a wanker, do you know that?" Draco glares.

"Have to be. Call-girls get kind of boring after a while."

The minute it's out if his mouth, he regrets it. Now Draco will think he's some sort of desperate... call-girl-shagger. Or something. And yeah, who cares what Draco thinks, since he's the arse making Harry feel angry and guilty and helpless and terribly afraid... but at the same time. Well. Harry doesn't know _what_ to think, let alone what he's actually thinking.

"Oh, ha ha." Draco sneers, face twisting. "Doesn't the she-Weasel service your every need any more?"

"Don't talk about her like that, Malfoy." Harry's snaps, less because he doesn't want Draco calling Ginny that—although he doesn't, of course—but more because he doesn't like Draco thinking about his sex life at all. It defies what they usually talk about—and they do have a usual, Harry has realised, which is all kinds of weird—and brings up topics that he would not discuss with anyone, let alone Draco. Especially not with him after all the fantasy-dreams that Harry has been having.

Though, Harry is far too angry right now to think about those at the moment.

"So you are still..."

Conflicting emotions surge through Harry, and he squeezes his eyes shut, hard. Breathes out through his nose. Props his feet up on the kitchen chair, and tries not to throttle Draco Malfoy.

"If you must know, we haven't been together since school. Why the unhealthy interest in my love life all of a sudden? Or are you just trying to divert attention away from the incredibly presumptuous thing you did this morning?"

A low yowel comes from a hallway near the kitchen, and Harry clenches his fist. Fucking Mrs. Norris. He doesn't need this right now.

Glaring at Draco, he storms away, towards the cat's noises.

Mrs. Norris, it seems, is in as bad a mood as Harry. He finds her shredding the curtains in what was probably Grandpa Black's old study. Not thinking properly, Harry reaches for her, and receives scratched hands for his trouble. Muttering a curse, he finally shoots a small shocking spell at her, and grabs her when she’s distracted.

"Don't even know why I took pity on you," Harry grumbles as he walks back to the kitchen, "Should have left you with Hagrid."

He stops dead at the kitchen door watching Draco, who is sitting on his kitchen counter and repairing Harry’s cabinet, which has apparently talked so much that it’s actually fallen off.

"I should think so," Draco says, tapping the cabinet twice and turning around to find Harry looking at him. Mrs. Norris scratches her claws deep into Harry's arm; he barely notices.

A thought comes into Harry's head, with it the ammunition to get Malfoy to leave, maybe even for good; Harry won't have to go to the Gala and Draco will go back to hating him. Harry sets his jaw. "No surprises that you're good at fixing cabinets, eh, Malfoy?"

Draco's face falls so swiftly and so far down that Harry almost rethinks his words. But they are true, and they are effective. Apparently.

"Thought you weren't keeping score," Draco looks down at his hands, and murmurs this so quietly Harry almost thinks he heard wrong. He knows that he didn’t, though, and Malfoy is right: it isn’t fair for him to bring that up now, not years later when it doesn’t matter and when Malfoy has been doing everything possible to take it back.

Dropping the still-struggling Mrs. Norris, Harry leaves the room. He doesn't know what else to do.

 

 

*****

Two and a half hours later, Harry is racked with anxiety and guilt.

He heard the door shut when Draco left, and in that moment, Harry realised that it could very well be the last time Draco ever walked out of his door, or through it at all. And that, surprisingly enough, had been more upsetting to him than anything else that had occurred.

That’s why he is currently sitting behind his door, ready to open it the second Draco comes back, on the off-chance he ever does.

If he does, Harry has decided that he'll go to the Gala.

If he doesn't, Harry can blame himself.

There's a knock on the door that sounds almost nervous, and Harry practically rips the door off its hinges in an effort to get it open.

"Draco," Harry practically sighs with relief, wanting to grab him and squeeze him and hold him and _love him._

Harry doesn’t have time to dissect that last thought, though, because Draco is _here._

"Indeed," Draco mumbles, in the awkward way that Harry adores.

Deep breath, gather courage, it has to be worked out:

"About what I said..." Harry begins, suddenly at a loss for words in a conversation he's played over in his head countless times, "I didn't... it's just..."

"It doesn't matter," Draco interrupts.

"Well, it does, but... all right." Harry says, shifting nervously, unsure how to proceed.

Draco flashes him a smile, and Harry's heart soars. "I'm glad you came back," Harry says, grinning. "I wanted to show you something."

They walk into the house, Draco following closely behind Harry as they make their way to the Park. By the time they've reached it, Mrs. Norris has struck again. Draco is still grumbling about it when they enter the room.

   Harry rolls his eyes at Draco's badmouthing of the cat, distracted by thoughts of more important things. Like how Draco will react to this. Not that Harry is entirely sure why that makes him so nervous, only that it does.

"Now, shut up and lie down," he says, guiding Draco to the middle of the room.

"Lie down?" Draco asks, voiced raised a few pitches in what must be terror at the thought of his expensive cashmere sweater touching the ground. "Lie down where, anyway?"

"Here." Harry says, sitting on the carpet in the middle of the floor and patting the spot next to him. "Sit the fuck down, Malfoy."

"All this time you've been trying to convince me you're not insane," Draco grumbles, and Harry smirks.

   "Shut up," Harry advises, dropping onto his back and looking at the ceiling. "Now lie down, and just look."

He feels Draco move onto the carpet, and then he feels Draco's eyes on him. _Looking._ Suddenly, Harry feels both self-conscious and elated. The way Draco looks at him has feeling, emotion. While it used to make him feel like a bug under a microscope, Harry finds he rather likes it now.

"Look at the ceiling, not at me," he murmurs, because he wants Draco to see his Park sky just as much as he wants Draco to see _him._

Draco obliges, and swiftly gasps.

Feeling a surge of pride, Harry teases, "Speechless, Draco? I never thought I'd see the day."

"I might be a little bit impressed," Draco admits, and Harry grins.

"You said you wanted to go to the park."

Draco catches his breath, as if surprised Harry remembered. "Did I?"

"Yep. And this is the best I can do. You should know, I don't usually let anyone else come in here... except 'Mione, when she helped me with the ceiling." Harry's not exactly sure why he's telling all this, he just knows that he wants Draco to know. Ginny had stopped by for a few minutes the night before, to bring his favourite coffee, and Harry hadn’t mentioned it at all: he thought it was too personal to show her. For some reason, he only wants to share it with Draco.

"I'm honoured," Draco says, trying and failing at sarcasm.

"You should be," Harry says, and, without thinking, inches closer. He catches a wave of the same, extraordinary smell of Draco that he'd experienced on the armchair all those days ago and closes his eyes, inhaling softly.

Draco looks over, and their eyes meet for longer than ever before.

"What?" Harry whispers, not wanting to shatter the sweet tension that has shrouded them.

Clearing his throat, Draco answers, "I bet we could Transfigure some proper grass. You know... if you really wanted to go all out with pretending you were in the park."

Smiling at the memory, Harry says, "Aha. Did it once. The carpet was sticky for a week afterwards."

Snorting and adjusting his position on the floor, Draco asks quietly, "Isn't your own backyard safe?"

"Yeah," Harry shrugs, "Of course. But there's no grass. This is central London, remember?"

"I have grass," Draco points out, "Lots of it."

"Show-off," Harry says, without infliction.

"Prat," Draco retorts.

"Wanker."

Draco sighs, "We did that one, I think."

Slightly embarrassed, Harry nods. "Oh, yeah." He pauses, wondering if he should say anything else about it, and then deciding that it's either say something now or have Draco think he's shagging call-girls on a regular basis. "I was joking... about the call-girls, you know?"

"I'd never have guessed," Draco says dryly.

A moment of comfortable silence passes between them, until Harry quietly says, "I know you don't understand. You know, about the going outside. You don't have to pretend."

Draco shifts beside him. "I want to, though."

"Pretend?"

"Understand."

"Oh." Harry replies, surprised. He turns his head, watching Draco intently. The sunlight coming from the ceiling makes his blond hair glisten like gold, and Harry fights the urge to reach for it, to caress it. To kiss it. "Why?"

Draco doesn't reply. He sighs, and after a moment suspended in time, finds Harry's hand on the carpet. Their fingers lightly touch, and despite how fast his heart is hammering in his chest, Harry feels more serene than he has in a long, long time.

"Draco?"

"Hm?"

"How much of it will I need to do so that your boss doesn't kill you?" Harry asks, stomach clenching in determination. He stares at the ceiling, unable to look at whatever expression is on Draco's face.

Instead of an immediate spoken response, Harry feels fingertips brush his knuckles. He closes his eyes.

"I don't know..." Draco says, and Harry can hear the hope struggling to break into his voice, "A short speech, dinner, perhaps a bit of mingling with some of those important rich people. You wouldn't have to stay the whole night.”

"I hate giving speeches," Harry murmurs, tapping his fingers absently under Draco's, still together on the carpet. He spends a few moments thinking more about it, but knows that in the end, he'll go. Of course he'll go. Draco needs him there. "Okay. But that's it. I'm not staying for the whole thing. And I hate Flooing, but... that's what we're going to have to do."

He glances at Draco lying next to him, and his breath catches in his throat. The smiling, closed-eye expression on Draco's face is one of relief, appreciation, and beauty. Harry wishes that look could last forever.

Draco opens his eyes, sees him looking, and asks softly, "Really? You really will?"

Harry smiles slightly, rubbing at his face a little, hardly believing himself. "Yes, Draco, I really will attend your horrible fucking Gala. I must have gone mad," Harry mutters. "You'll owe me big time, of course."

Draco laughs, squeezing the life out of Harry's hand on the carpet. Harry finds he doesn't mind a bit.

"Fine. No problem. Harry, I really—" whatever Draco 'really' did, Harry doesn't find out, because in that moment, there's a loud crash and a wobbly, flying creature comes through the window.

"That'll be your owl," Harry reluctantly withdraws his hand from Draco's and walks over to the window. "The one with the gender issues."

Harry watches Draco read the letter, studying his shoulders and jawline as Esme nips at his ears. He finds himself staring idly at Draco's left arm as it holds the letter, wondering about the Mark that is no doubt hidden underneath Draco's clothing. Inexplicably, Harry wants to lift Draco’s sweater off of him and see it; in fact, he wants to take _all_ the expensive clothing off of Draco. Harry pushes both thoughts away.

"Cholmondely wants everyone on the Gala committee in her office in ten minutes," Draco sighs, looking at Harry, whom has luckily looked away from Draco's left arm by now. "I'm going to have to go."

Harry rakes a hand through his hair, disappointed. "Right. Well, at least you won't have to lie to her now," he says, thinking back to Draco's contented smile minutes before and smiling at the thought.

"Thank you," Draco says, hesitating, obviously not knowing what to do now. Harry knows the feeling.

"Well, Esme," Harry whispers to the owl, petting his feathers as Esme nips at Harry’s finger, "I suppose this is the last time I’ll see you."

Draco watches him with a mix of amusement and sadness. Because he's leaving, Harry realises, and now he doesn't have a reason to come back. Even in his sadness, the thought that Draco doesn't want to leave makes Harry's stomach flutter pleasantly.

"Fuck off, Malfoy." Harry says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. And then, before he can think about it, he says, "I'll see you tomorrow."

 

 

******

Over the next few days, Harry sees more charts, statistics, and glorifying quotes than he ever has before. Draco comes over the day after their moment in the Park with a suitcase full of  information that he expects Harry to have memorized and ready for the Gala. The following days are lost in a haze of War Orphans Trust pamphlets and the cakes that Harry likes to make when he's especially nervous about something; it's a recipe that he picked up from Aunt Petunia, oddly enough, but he enjoys the cakes, as does Draco, more importantly. He no longer looks starved all the time, and Harry feels proudly responsible for that.

Still, if it weren’t for the appreciative look on Draco’s face, Harry would have backed out by now. He’s barely had time to worry about actually attending the Gala, what with all the work that needs to be done before-hand.

Today, Harry is sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, watching Draco clutch his newly re-packed briefcase like a lifeline. He looks worried.

"Draco, whatever you're freaking out about, just stop it," Harry advises, stifling a yawn. "It's all going to be fine. You're too anal for it not to be fine." Harry quells the rather juvenile supply of jokes about Draco and anal that come to mind.

"Charming," Draco says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "What about you?"

"I'll be fine, too. The Floo connection's all set up, you're going to be at the other side of it, my dress robes are washed and pressed and Mrs. Norris is probably going to wreck the place while I'm away," Harry sighs, ticking off the points on his fingers. He isn’t looking forward to the Gala, not a bit, and every time he thinks about it, the ball of apprehension in his chest grows.

"Are you sure?" Draco asks, suddenly and unexpectedly. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Hardly believing his ears, Harry laughs softly. Draco looks terrified, as if he wishes he hadn't said that, and he probably does, seeing as all Harry would have to do is say "no, actually, I'm not so sure," and then the whole thing will be shot.

Draco must care about him. To have said that, he must.

"I'll be there, all right? I said I'd be there, and I'll be there. I'm sure I don't want to at all, but I'm sure I'm going to do it anyway."

"You're mad," Draco mutters.

Harry stares at him for a moment. Then he shrugs. "Yes."

Yes, Harry is mad; of that, he's sure.

 

 

*****

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, _breathe._

 _It won't do to die now,_ Harry reminds himself, _before you've even gotten to the damned Gala._

Still, he feels not dissimilar to the way he did when he walked into the forest to die two years ago. Harry tries not to read too far into that; he knows that, if Draco thought the Gala wouldn't be safe, he wouldn't have made Harry go at all. And yet, Harry feels sick. He feels anxious and nervous and completely off-kilter; he hates the mix of emotions stirring in his stomach, and he hates that the first time he's leaving his safety zone is for a fucking Gala, and he hates that he can't even say no, he can't even turn back now. Because Harry can’t stand to see Draco, with his stupidly beautiful hair and face and personality, lose everything he’s worked so hard to build for himself since after the war.

Harry sighs, straightens his uncomfortable dress robes, and steps into the fire. Distantly familiar whooshing fills his ears, and Harry shuts his eyes tight as green flames dance around him.

When he emerges from the fire at Malfoy Manor, he's shaking uncontrollably. _Breathe, breathe, breathe,_ Harry chants to himself, but finds doing so increasingly difficult.

He waits alone in the room Draco set up for him, sticking close to the fire in case he needs a quick getaway.

Footsteps come from outside the door, and there are a few swift knocks before Draco steps in.

He looks gorgeous, black dress robes clinging to his lithe frame perfectly, silver lining bringing out the light grey of his eyes. Light blond hair is styled more than it usually is, and there’s a slightly pink colour to his cheeks that could be excitement or anticipation or both.

"You look pleased," Harry notes, trying and failing to sound anything but anxious. The way Draco is looking at him now isn't helping the churning of his stomach. "Did you think I wasn't going to come?"

"No. I'm pleased you did... although you look very strange indeed."

"I feel very strange indeed," Harry admits, restraining from reaching up to mess his hair; he's gotten it relatively close to flat for the evening. It had taken him a full twenty minutes to find two matching socks, and the dress robes he’s in now haven’t been worn since Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

Draco takes a deep breath, and Harry would do the same if only he could breathe properly at all. "Your speech is the pre-dinner one, so you can say your piece, make awkward conversation with her highness while you eat your steak, and then you can bugger off if you want to."

"I know that, Draco," Harry sighs, "I memorised my schedule, as instructed. And you've got to stop calling her 'her highness' or I'm going to do it to her face by accident."

Draco looks like he wants to say something, but he merely turns away. "Ready?"

Of course Harry isn't ready. Just the idea is ridiculous. Staring at the door that will lead him somewhere he never wants to go, Harry whispers, "I really hate you," and steps towards the room’s exit.

Malfoy Manor, Harry notes quickly, is really quite beautiful when it's not invaded by giant snakes and men with their souls in pieces. The ballroom—different from the one he had been dragged to two years ago when he'd been caught with Ron and Hermione is the forest, Harry is thankful to see—is sparkling. Glistening lights decorate the room, making everything glow in a light haze. Good taste hangs from every surface, along with velvet and wealth and silver. The people here look happy and content, and not like they care very much for any War Orphans, but then, Harry isn't here for the good of the children, either.

Harry dares himself to hope that all the smiling faces mean he won't have to do anyone any favours tonight.

"It's really beautiful," Harry says quietly, relishing the way Draco's face lights at the compliment. "I mean, it's probably cost a disgusting amount of money, but it looks really nice."

"Thanks," Draco murmurs, as Harry spots someone across the room that looks just enough like an old crone to be Draco's boss. His observation is confirmed when Draco elbows him in the ribs and says, "She looks like she's coming this way, which means it's time for your speech." Harry's stomach clenches painfully. "And I should probably get back to my date."

Harry's whole body clenches painfully.

Draco has a date? Apparently he does, and Harry knows that it isn't his place to care about that… but who had he asked, anyway? He's been at Grimmauld Place so much lately that Harry just assumed he didn't have time for anyone else. Maybe he's dating someone his parents picked out to help rebuild the Malfoy name's respect. It would make sense, Harry supposes, his mouth feeling increasingly dry.

"Your date?" Harry asks, before he can help himself.

Draco smiles slyly. "Behind Madam," he points.

Craning his neck, Harry looks behind Her Highness to see a rather old woman with grey hair and red dress robes. His heart gives a leap, and a laugh of relief escapes him. "That'll be the infamous Janice?"

Then, before any other words between them can be exchanged, President Cholmondely is sweeping him away and saying something excitedly. Harry is distracted by the gentle squeeze Draco has just given his arm and the raging nerves in his system, and doesn't hear what she's telling him. He predicts that as long as he nods along, he'll be fine.

When he stands in front of hundreds of people and gives his speech, he isn't paying much attention to any of the facts or statistics he's reading off. He'd spent a good deal of his time lately writing the speech; partly because he had little else go do besides annoy Draco, but mostly because he knows that this is important to him, and doesn't want to fuck it up by making his speech a quick: "Actually, I couldn't give a crap less about any of this; the little floating lights in here, though, were a nice touch."

Instead of concentrating on the ball room or the people there, Harry says his speech without thinking about it. He forces his mind to wander away to his Park, and while he's actually standing in front of a huge number of people, shaking slightly and palms sweaty, in his head he's sitting on a green carpet and staring at the sky.

The speech is finally over after what might have been years. Harry nods, feeling awkward, and immediately searches Draco out in the room. President Cholmondely seems intent on bothering the hell out of him, however, and immerses him in conversation herself (though Harry thinks it must be pretty obvious from all the attention he has on Draco that she isn't the one he'd been wanting to sit with). Through the meal, Harry murmurs 'mmm's and 'of course's at Cholmondely, and he finds that, really, it's not so bad here.

Not so bad. But Harry would still like to get the hell out as soon as possible.

Draco moves in his peripheral vision, and Harry turns immediately to look at him. Janice has just left, and Draco is looking back at Harry with a smile on his face. Harry's lips quirk.

Then, just when Harry's decided on a way to politely interrupt Her Highness, say goodbye to Draco, and make a hasty exit without speaking to anyone else, he hears an aged voice behind him.

"So lovely to finally meet you, Mr Potter! I'm Janice Wrigglesworth, Draco's secretary." Janice takes his hand, and Harry bites back a startled and amused laugh. So this is Janice. Draco hadn't been exaggerating. "You know Draco, of course... I've heard _all_ about you..."

Harry stands up as soon as he remembers to, still slightly surprised by the old lady's turn up and a little antsy about having to speak with another person. _It's fine, Harry,_ he tells himself. To Janice he says, "Hello, Ms Wrigglesworth, I've heard a lot about you, too."

"Janice, please," she says.

"Janice," Harry amends.

They make easy small talk for a few minutes, with how are you-s and nice to meet you-s, and then Harry, seized with a sudden idea, murmurs, "So how long have you known Draco for?"

He thinks that Janice might be smirking just a bit too hard. "Oh, years, Mr Potter," she says, and at his look, corrects, "Harry." She smiles slightly dazedly, "Draco has been with W.O.T. for quite a bit, now.” She looks over at where Draco is speaking with a woman Harry doesn't know, and Harry can't help but follow her gaze and have his eyes stick to Draco. "He doesn’t deserve to have to do this all,” She gestures to the room around them. “Works so hard, the lad. It almost makes me feel bad, what with his past, and his parents." Janice shrugs wrinkled shoulders. "I try not to mention it."

Harry thinks of all the days Draco had come to Grimmauld Place not even sure if Harry would be attending the Gala, thinks of the owls his mum sends him at five in the morning and of the only pair of ears that has heard his story about dying. He sighs, not unhappily. "He doesn’t deserve it," Harry agrees. "Don't tell him I said that."

Janice grins at him, "Of course not. Although I'm sure he knows you don't hate him anymore, love."

Harry manages to smile politely through a small pang of guilt.

"He's quite happy about it, too," Janice informs him, eyes watching Harry expectedly. "He felt terrible about that fight you two got into."

Harry blushes, "Well, that... that wasn't all Draco's fault."

"I'm sure it wasn't, dear." Then, after a moment's pause, "You know, Harry, you are a very nice young man. Much like the men in my day, in fact. Oh, but back then..."

 

 

*****

As much as Harry wants to leave, he finds that, once standing in the entrance hall, he rather likes it here. Not here as in 'at the W.O.T. Gala,' but here as in, 'right in front of the door at Malfoy Manor.' It’s quite beautiful. Harry's eyes scan the ground before him like a starving man, but he doesn't step outside.

It must have been strange to have grown up in such a large house, and with so much money. And it must be a dramatic change, Harry thinks, to have wound up living alone in a mansion with money that for once isn't helping you.

Harry realises that he's actually happy he came. He knows that it means a lot to Draco.

Draco....

He won't see Draco again after tonight.

Sighing, Harry returns to pondering the grounds. He doesn't need to think about that now. He's got enough problems being here as it is.

"Enjoying the view?" Someone asks from behind him, and Harry has already gone for his wand when he turns to see that it's only Draco.

"I needed some air, oddly enough," he says, as Draco comes up next to him in the doorway.

"It's good air, I assure you," Draco claims, and Harry snorts.

"Don't show off, Malfoy. Air is air."

Draco chuckles behind him. "No, it's not. It's cleaner here. Purer. And anyway, I hardly think you can call yourself an expert on fresh air."

"Very cutting, I'm impressed." Harry murmurs, looking at Draco.

"What did Janice say to you?" Malfoy demands suddenly, folding his arms and looking peeved.

"Nothing much... that I'm a very nice young man," Harry shrugs, kicking Draco lightly in the foot. "I'd like to know what you've said to her; she seems to know all about me."

"Nothing much," Draco mutters, and then, after a pause, "You could probably slope off now if you wanted, by the way. The dancing's going to start soon, and I suspect you'd hate to not miss that."

Harry glares at him for a minute, then rolls his eyes and flashes a tiny smile. "You suspect correctly."

Comfortable silence falls, and Harry turns back to look at the sun going down over the Malfoy property.

"You're almost outside. Just a couple of steps and you'd be in the grounds; it's probably safer out there than it is in here, listening to sinfully boring old people telling you how they made their fortune in the insurance business."

As if showing up here for the night hadn't been too much already. "Behave, Draco." He gestures to the land he's still looking at. "Look at that. I can't remember the last time I could see such a long way; it's incredible."

"Yeah," Draco finally replies, though he doesn’t sound half as impressed as Harry had. "It's clear tonight."

A few women walk through the entrance hall, and Draco practically trips over him in attempt to step farther away. It's too late, of course; the women have noticed them and walked away giggling.

"Great. Now they'll have something to talk about." Harry allows himself to scrub at his face with sweaty hands. "I'm going home."

"Fair enough," Draco concedes. "You know where to go, and I'll cover for you if anyone asks where you are."

Harry tries to smile at him, but suspects that he doesn't do a very good job at it.

He walks back into Malfoy Manor for what will surely be the last time ever. When he gets back to the Floo, he takes a deep breath and rubs his face one more time before going home.

 

 

*****

When he arrives at Grimmauld Place, Harry is too exhausted to bother with the Floo, and more than that, he's hoping a certain blond will put it to use again before the connection is closed. Moving slowly, he walks into his living room and sits on his favourite armchair. Replays the night's events. Thinks about what will happen tomorrow, when Draco doesn't have a reason to come back to Grimmauld Place, and Harry can finally get his old life back.

His old life of sitting around all day, reading books with only Hermione, and rarely Ginny, for company. Harry sighs, and his thoughts go to Ron. He hasn't written back since Harry's last letter, a medium-length one that he wrote in reply to Ron’s five-line note, and the thought makes Harry want to cry—although that could just be the panic attack that is sure to come at some point, now that he's been outside of his house and surrounded by other people again.

The fact that Ron has no more time for him but Draco Malfoy has spent every day for the last month at his house is not a lost irony. Maybe he should write to Ron again, give him a piece of his mind... Maybe he should stop expecting people to stay with him if he's kept up in his house all the time.

Harry frowns. That last thought in his head had sounded suspiciously like something Draco would say.

"I really am losing the fucking plot," Harry says to the empty room. Mrs. Norris slinks past him with a glare.

Not that he'll have to worry about going crazy anymore, after tonight. If Draco comes here after the Gala has ended, they'll have some coffee and talk and then Draco will leave and they'll both know it's for good. If he doesn't come back, the short conversation about the Malfoy Grounds will be the last one they ever had. Harry tries to make himself okay with that. He doesn’t even understand why it's such a big deal, Draco leaving. Yes, his company is enjoyed, and Harry has grown to have a soft spot for Draco, but...

But. Forgetting any of this ever happened is for the best.

He needs a drink. Coffee, preferably. And maybe the strongest alcohol he's got in the house.

 

 

*****

Harry has just gotten to the coffee part of that plan when the cupboard flaps a greeting above him. Turning around, he sees Draco in the kitchen doorway.

"You look fed up," Harry observes, examining Draco's tired face and wary expression. It's been a long night. "Everyone cleared off?"

Draco nods and leans against the counter. Harry feels grey eyes on him the entire time he's making the coffee. It makes him even more anxious, and after the day he's had, that's a difficult feat.

Harry grabs a bottle of Ogden's from the top cupboard. Draco's eyebrows shoot up.

"Irish," he observes, as Harry hands him a cup that's more firewhiskey than coffee.

Harry takes a sip and swiftly chokes. After a few coughs, he mumbles, "Indeed."

He catches Draco's eye over their respectable coffee cups, and something crackles between them. Draco's looking at him with something addictive in his eyes, something cool and hot at once, stronger and sweeter than Harry has ever seen before. He could kiss him now and Draco probably wouldn't even protest.

He could kiss Draco...

But he won't. It would only complicate things.

"I'm going upstairs," Harry informs him. "The Park looks pretty cool at night."

Harry grabs the bottle of Ogden's and leaves the kitchen without saying anything else. In the room with his Park sky, he can hear Draco coming up the stairs to join him.

"On the plus side, I didn't... die," Harry says, inspecting his empty cup and then sinking back onto his elbows on the carpet.

Settling down beside him, Draco laughs, although it's not very funny. "Did you expect to?"

"I 'spect all kinds of horrible things these days. Safer that way," Harry says, reserve going out the window as he holds out his cup for more firewhiskey.

"Nothing bad happened, you lunatic," Draco mumbles, sloppily pouring a large amount into Harry's glass.

The last bit of Harry's mind that's sober is insisting he stop it this instant, because getting drunk with Draco Malfoy is the epitome of bad ideas. However, the last bit of Harry's mind that's sober is completely overruled. He takes another swig from his cup.

"You say that now..." Harry says, foggy mind trying hard to think back to the evening and failing to get there. A lot of bad stuff happened, that’s for sure. "But people took pictures of me," he whispers, trying to get Draco to understand.

“You knew they'd take pictures," Draco slurs slightly, "It was a... you know. A gonefore conclusion."

"You're a gonefore conclusion," Harry mutters, choking on more Ogden's. God, he never drinks. Now he remembers why: it burns.

"You're making no sense," Draco tells him, and Harry has to take a moment to think back to what he said before that. Something about conclusions.

"I'm not very good at drinking," Harry admits. "Did you un-network me?" he adds, suddenly curious, and it's a mistake to look at Draco. His blond hair looks perfect under the Park's night sky above them, and Harry can't think of why it would be a bad idea for them to kiss. It seems like a great idea now, brilliant, even. But what if Draco doesn't like him? Harry wants Draco to like him.

Harry inches closer, slowly because his mind is sluggish, not because he's thinking much about the situation.

"Did I...? Oh. No, I just put some wards on the... er..." Draco frowns, and Harry frowns back. Draco shouldn't look sad. That shouldn't be allowed. "Anyway, don't you want to be able to use it again? Now you know you can?"

Harry shakes his head hard, "Nope. Nooo. No thank you."

"So, nothing's changed?" Draco rasps through a sip of firewhiskey straight from the bottle.

"Why would it?"

"Because... because you didn't die," Draco informs him.

"S'not really about dying or not dying," Harry mumbles, shifting onto his side and touching Draco's forearm, the one with the stupid ugly Voldemort tattoo. It doesn't look so bad when it can't summon evil, but maybe that’s because Harry’s also drunk off his arse. "Did that hurt?"

"Yes."

It begins to look very bad again, now that Harry knows it hurt Draco. His Draco.

"Oh." Harry withdraws his fingers from the Dark Mark and rolls onto his back, staring at his fake sky. He could go outside and look at the stars that way, he could lay in the street with Draco and they could see the real sky—

 _This_ is why Harry doesn't drink. S'dangerous.

Draco pours him more alcohol. Harry looks into the other man's face, and decides that it is a much more beautiful view than the one above them.

"Draco," Harry says, feeling a wide smile on his face.

"What?"

"You're looking at me."

Draco nods vigorously. "Yes," he whispers.

"You look at me a lot," Harry informs him, and he means it to come out as a question, but instead it sounds like a statement. He stares into Draco's perfect perfect eyes and those eyes stare back and Harry wants to grab him and hold on forever.

"It's polite to make eye contact," Draco whispers.

Harry smile is huge as he sits up and peers into Draco's face. Draco's so funny, acting like he doesn't know. "No, no, no. You _look._ It's different."

"What's your point, Potter?"

Harry doesn't really remember what his point is. "My point is... that I don't mind. That I want..."

 _To kiss you really really badly,_ Harry finishes, but instead of saying that he just leans over and grabs Draco's arms, hauling him closer. Draco stumbles over to him, and Harry presses them tightly together, as close as he's wanted to be all evening, and it's a kiss full of twisting fingers and alcoholic-breath and Draco Malfoy, and Harry is in heaven.

 

 

*****

Harry is in Hell.

The first thing he's aware of is a headache like he hasn't had months.

The second thing he's aware of is that he isn't in his room. He isn't even in a bed, and yet there is a warm blanket covering his body.

The final thing he's aware of is a plethora of memories from the night before.

Shooting up rapidly and making his head throb, Harry looks around. Yes, he's in the Park, the last place he remembers being. And yes, there is Malfoy, the last person he remembers... being with. Harry cringes.

 _This is why you shouldn't drink,_ he chides himself, rising steadily to his feet and squinting his eyes against the sunlight coming from the ceiling. Shit, that hurts. He picks up the blanket and walks over to Draco, who is still asleep on the carpet. Carefully covering him with the blanket and mindful not to wake him up—because wouldn't that be awkward—Harry allows himself a moment to openly stare.

He's never seen him this vulnerable, so expressionless and calm. He looks nice even when he's obviously been drinking, even when his chin has light stubble on it and his grey eyes aren't open.

Harry turns away. This is bad.

Once changed out of his dress robes and downstairs, Harry puts on the coffee maker and waits for it to be done with an unhealthy amount of anxiety. He'd managed to dig up some hangover potion, but it had been old and almost empty, so he hadn't bothered. Head throbbing and mouth dry, he leans against the counter and attempts to think through his splitting headache.

He had kissed Malfoy. He had kissed Malfoy a lot, Harry would guess, although he doesn't remember the end of the kiss or anything afterwards, so he isn't entirely sure. They hadn’t had sex, at least: of that he’s positive, because Draco had been sleeping too far away, and they’d both been far too drunk to… clean up afterwards, so Harry would have known if they had.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut.

The most troubling part of all of that was how badly he had wanted to. When drunk, all of Harry's inhibitions had been down, and he had let every careful thought go in favour of kissing Draco Malfoy. Harry doesn't even know what to do now. When Malfoy comes downstairs later, things are going to be awkward as hell.

Also when Malfoy comes downstairs later, it will be their last conversation. When he leaves it will be for good.

And Harry is okay with that. He has to be. What other option does he have, anyway?

Draco chooses that moment to appear in the kitchen doorway. They make eye contact for a few moments, and Harry observes that Draco must be just as hungover as he is.

“Any chance of a coffee?" Draco asks softly, "Without firewhisky in it?"

Harry winces at the mention of alcohol, at the sight of Draco, and at the thoughts going through his throbbing head, and gestures to the coffeemaker on the counter near him. "Help yourself. You know where the cups are."

Draco goes about pouring his coffee, and Harry decidedly looks away. He knows that he must be a state, with his posture stiff and his arms folded and his undoubtedly hungover appearance, but finds that really, it doesn't matter anyway. He wishes Draco would just have his coffee and stop fucking with his head.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Harry decides to clear up and misconceptions from the night before. "You know," he says, and even he can hear how falsely casual his voice is, "I was pretty drunk last night. Probably talking a load of rubbish, I usually do. Not that I get drunk very often, but... yeah. Anything I did was just really... you should probably just ignore anything I said, or did, because—"

"—because you were drunk?" Draco finishes for him with biting sarcasm.

Scuffing his socks against the floor, Harry mumbles, "Yeah," and hopes to God that he sounds surer than he feels.

What he does feel is an irrational pang of guilt. It's not as if Draco cares much anyway, though, right? Not as if he plans on doing anything other than leaving in a few moments and never coming here again?

But Draco had sounded harsh just then, and Harry knows by now that's how Draco reacts to being hurt: he tries to hurt back.

Harry's brain pulses in agony, and he doubts it's from the hangover this time.

"So... that's it?" Draco asks.

The unhappiness in his tone throws Harry for a moment. Biting his lip hard and clenching his fists painfully, he finally swallows and says, "Yep."

_Leave, please leave, please just leave. Kicking you out is a lot harder when you're actually here._

Draco doesn't leave then, but he does give Harry an almost twisted smile, a smile that makes Harry long for the nice, easy ones he used to get. And then makes him clench his fists even harder.

Harry's feelings are out of control. Draco really, really needs to get out.

"Thank you, for last night." Draco says after a tense pause, "For the Gala, I mean. I really appreciate it."

Harry doesn't look up at him. "I know. I didn't have a completely awful time, you know."

"Good," Draco says, slowly preparing to exit the kitchen. "I'm late for work, so..." _have a nice life,_ Harry finishes for him, and his chest constricts.

He doesn’t know what the hell to do next. Harry can’t help feeling like going back to spending all his time bitter and reading would be some sort of… insult to Draco’s memory. Or something. Harry doesn’t know, exactly, but he’s surprised when, t the kitchen door, Draco hesitates.

"Harry?"

The sound of his name said like that, so open and vulnerable and unsure, makes Harry raise his head. He doesn't know what he's expecting though, and Draco only looks at him, apparently at a loss for words.

It's all fucking pointless.

"I'll see you," Draco finishes, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

Then he's gone.

 

 

******

Because Harry doesn't know where to go, he goes into his bedroom. It's the only room Draco has never been in, and therefore the only room where Harry can think properly without getting overemotional and confused again.

He doesn't realise how long he's been sitting there until he hears the door to his house open, and his heart leaps inexplicably.

_Draco?_

"Diagon Alley was insane this morning, Harry! Don't suppose you feel like coming down here and helping me put all this stuff away?"

Hermione.

Damn it, that shouldn't be disappointing; it should be a fucking relief.

Harry gets up off his bed and makes his way into the kitchen.

"Can you not yell, 'Mione? I've got a splitting headache," Harry tells her, and the look on her face lets him know that she feels no pity.

"If it's self-inflicted then I'm tempted to continue yelling," she says, louder than necessary. Harry scowls.

When he moves over to the coffee machine, Hermione asks from behind him, "Where's Draco?"

Viscerally, Harry feels as if he's about to implode; in addition to the unclear and downright contradictory emotions twisting through him, his hungover body isn't making things any easier.

"He doesn't fucking live here, you know," Harry finally says, with more malice than intended. Hermione is only trying to help, he knows that.

"He might as well do, Harry," Hermione says gently, and Harry scrubs at his face. "Where did he go?"

It's clear that Hermione doesn't mean it literally, that she means _why did he go_ instead of _where_. Harry isn't prepared to answer to first one out loud yet; not when the only real answer is _he doesn't have a reason to be here anymore_. Not when Harry knows that he might still be here, he might still have a reason, if only Harry himself hadn't been such an arse.

It makes more sense this way. It's for the best, he mentally repeats, and the words have lost all meaning.

"He left. He went to his office. Or home. To his house. His Manor. Where he lives. As opposed to here, where he does not live."

"Why?"

Harry grabs a shopping bag and heads for the cabinets; he really isn't in the mood for bloody Hermione and her game of twenty questions.

 _Because it’s safer this way,_ he thinks.

"Because I asked him to. What's this about, 'Mione?"

Hermione sighs, grabbing a shopping bag of her own and making towards the cabinets. "Have you seen the _Prophet_?"

"You know I haven't," Harry snaps, annoyed that she would bring that up. It should have been enough to go to the Gala, he doesn't need to hear all about it, too.

“No need to be like that. There's a really nice picture of the two of you, that's all, and I was going to ask how it went—stop that!" Hermione shrieks, as Mrs. Norris attempts to snap an entire bag of chips from right out in front of her, and winds up scratching Hermione's hand in the process. Harry rubs his face, absently wondering where Mrs. N had been when he’d been in his room just now. Usually, she causes much more havoc when Harry leaves her and goes upstairs. "I was going to ask, but obviously someone there upset you."

Looking up at her and grabbing another package, he mumbles, "No, it was fine."

Hermione huffs out a breath, and the expression on her face is not unlike when she used to find him and Ron playing exploding snap instead of doing their Charms essays. "It is Draco, then. I knew it. I should always trust my instincts."

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. "Hermione, just leave it alone."

"I will not. You were happy, Harry, and I can hardly believe it myself, but it was because of him," Granger says quietly, and the amount of pity on her face makes Harry's growing anger stronger yet. "And I'm not going to watch you make yourself miserable over him when it's obvious that you both feel—"

"I don't feel anything," Harry interrupts, practically shouting, wishing people would just _leave him be._ "I don't want him here. I never wanted him here in the first place, and now that fucking Gala is over I can have my life back the way it was. That's all I want."

Hermione stares at him for several long moments.

"Right. Well, I left some bags by the door, so..." she says, and Harry wonders what the fuck it is about today that's making people unable to finish their sentences.

Harry continues putting food away while Hermione retrieves the other packages. She’s picked up his favourite coffee, which is a relief, but Harry finds himself less happy about it now that there’s no one to share it with.

Hermione returns with more packages later than she should have, and when he looks at her, she just shakes her head.

"What?" Harry asks, trying not to snap at her again.

"Harry..." She begins, then shakes her head again, apparently at a loss for words. "Harry, you are such an idiot."

Harry glares at her. She sighs for what must be the millionth time.

"I need a cup of tea," she mumbles.

When all the packages have been put away and the two of them are once more sitting at the table, Harry expects to feel better. Cleaner, maybe, like he's just finished with something particularly dirty, or more relaxed, since the Gala he'd dreaded is now officially, officially over.

Instead, looking at the head of bushy hair across the table and with his life completely back to the way it had been for a year, Harry feels empty.

 

 

*****

The next several days are some of the slowest since he’d first decided not to leave the house after the war. Harry wakes up on Thursday, the day after Hermione brought him food packages and Draco left for good, not knowing what to do with himself. Two months ago, he would have reached next to him and gotten his newest novel from the bedside table, or gotten up and worked on his wandless magic. Harry rejects both of those ideas, and tries to tell himself that it isn’t because he’d rather have snarky arguments with Draco than do either of those things.

Worse than anything else is the knowledge that actually, one thing is different from when Harry first shut himself away, and that would be his libido. Even as depressed and jumbled as he feels, Harry can’t keep some of the arousal that comes with thoughts of Draco at bay.

Harry spends a very long time that Thursday hating himself for that.

He spends the rest of his day in bed, and he doesn’t even have any coffee.

Ginny stops by on Friday, and with her a large stack of magazines. Harry thinks Hermione probably told her to come over, but he wishes she hadn’t. As Harry sits with Ginny in his living room and they talk about Gladia the Gorgeous’ newest divorce, he misses the snotty comments and little quips that could only come from Draco. When Ginny leaves a few hours later, Harry stays in his living room; after about ten minutes, his resolve breaks.

Harry rises from his seat and moves into what he’s dubbed Draco’s Favourite Armchair. But it doesn’t smell like him anymore.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he mutters. “It’s only been two days.”

On Saturday, he receives an owl from none other than Janice.

It’s an invitation to the newest W.O.T. event, a Quidditch picnic. Harry reads it twice before sending the owl away without a reply. He's not sure how he feels about seeing Draco, not after their drunken kissing session and awkward goodbye. He doubts he'll go, but he doesn't reject the invitation yet.

Sunday, he owls Hermione and asks her to stop by. He doesn’t trust himself to be alone.

“How are you feeling?” is the first thing she says, and Harry wonders if he looks like utter shite. Most likely.

“Fine. I don’t know.” He rubs his face. “I wanted to ask you about Ron.”

They settle down at the kitchen table. Hermione frowns. “What did you need to ask?”

“I...” Harry says, then starts over: “He hasn’t been replying to my letters.”

Hermione purses her lips, though Harry suspects that the annoyance isn’t for him. “That isn’t a question.”

“I’m sure you’ll see it as one.”

Moving hair out of her eyes, Hermione says, “It’s difficult for him, with you kept up in the house all the time.” She sighs. “He had a lot of expectations for the three of us, and you’re the only one who isn’t fulfilling them.” Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. Hermione gives him a stern look. “You know that I don’t mean it in a bad way, Harry. I understand why you do this. Ron’s just having some trouble with it; I imagine that it isn’t easy for him to come by and see you now.”

 _It isn't easy for your best friend of eight years to come by, but Draco Malfoy doesn't mind at all?_ a voice in Harry's head asks, but he pushes it away. Fuming, he growls, “Yeah? Well he’s got a nerve if he thinks—”

_“Harry.”_

Reaching for his coffee, Harry scowls. “What?”

“It isn’t easy for any of us to be here, all right? Especially not now. These past few days you’ve been in such a mood, even Ginny said you were a bit off.” Harry clenches his teeth. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to Ron. He has been busy with work, you know, it’s not only that he doesn’t want to come here.”

Harry nods, standing up to get more coffee. Ron doesn’t want anything to do with him, then. Well, fine. Great. Harry doesn’t need him, anyway.

 _You do need someone, though,_ his brain insists, _someone who doesn’t mind spending time with you every day._

Harry drops his head into his hands. It feels like he’s hungover again, with the crashing in his skull and the nausea in his stomach. He senses Hermione coming over to him, and a tentative hand rubs his shoulder. He doesn’t raise his head, but he leans into the touch. Hermione hums.

They stay like that for a few moments, until—

“Hang on,” Harry says, slowly looking up. “That’s—I know that song you’re humming. I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

He struggles to put lyrics to the tune. Hermione does it for him. She sings:

“In my life, why do I smile at people who I’d much rather kick in the eye?”

Harry freezes.

_It’s a good question, though, don’t you think?_

“Hermione.”

Harry’s head goes blank. For the first time in days, there are no swarming words and building emotions and anything else unpleasant and unwanted. Instead, slowly, memories and phrases unravel in front of Harry’s eyes, and it’s like the whole world has taken a deep, deep breath.

 _Draco Malfoy is wearing duck gloves,_ and _caution is for peasants and Hufflepuffs,_ and _No, no, no. You_ look. _It’s different._

“Yes?”

 _I don’t know, Malfoy, I’ve never seen you smile,_ and _I thought perhaps it would speak to anyone who bothered to actually listen,_ and _we're not talking metaphorically here, are we, Potter?_

"Where did you hear that song?"

And _have you found the something yet, then? The thing you’re waiting for?_

Hermione stares at him as if he's gone mad. "Arthur's got a new wireless, and that song is always playing. You look like you've seen a ghost, Harry, is everything all right?"

And _I’ll see you._

“I think I’ve found the something.”

 

 

*****

Harry Apparates outside Malfoy Manor, and the distorted feeling from that, in conjunction with the pouring rain, makes him stumble and fall over.

“Shit,” Harry mumbles, rising to his feet. It’s been a long time since he’s Apparated. Actually, he’s rather lucky that he didn’t splinch himself.

As soon as he had his belated epiphany, Harry had run all over his house, first grabbing shoes, then his wand, then a stick of Muggle gum to freshen his breath. Just in case. He wanted to make sure he would be prepared for anything, and, well, he does hope Draco will forgive him and they can move past it onto more... interesting things.

He flew out of his house before he had time for any real thought; whatever Hermione had shrieked behind him had been lost under the pounding of his heart.

He’d gotten two feet away from his front steps and Apparated, Muggles be damned.

Now, standing outside the front gates on Draco’s enormous property, he panics for the first time.

There’s no way Draco will let him in, not after he had been kicked out so rudely.

Harry extends his magic to feel the wards; they certainly aren’t weak, but he reckons it will only take a minute or two to tear them down. He does so as quickly as possible, barely glancing around himself at all while he does. If something happens to him now, he deserves it after the way he treated Draco.

The wards come down, and Harry charges through the gates, hastily putting them back up after he gets onto the grounds.

Then he sprints. It’s exhilarating in a way, like when he and Hermione had first arrived in Godric’s Hollow during the war, and were completely unaware of what could happen. This time, Harry thinks there are slightly higher stakes.

Rain soaks through his shoes, his shirt, his skin. It’s cold water, but he barely spares it a thought as it pelts him.

Instead, Harry thinks about what it will be like seeing Draco again. In his mind, a scene plays out where they crash mouths the second they see each other, and spend the rest of the day having sex on various surfaces.

Harry frowns. That sounds suspiciously like his dream last night. He really needs a new set of fantasies.

It feels like forever before he reaches the front porch, and Harry only has two slight heart attacks before he gets there. His frazzled mind takes two full minutes to find the magic-powered doorbell, and by that time he’s shaking.

 _Damn it, Draco, open the door,_ he thinks, pounding the doorbell slightly hysterically. He should have thought this through more. For all he knows, Draco is at work, or in bed with another person—

The wood shimmers and turns transparent. Draco stares at him, mouth open and eyes wide, through the door. He’s in a bathrobe and his hair is mussed and Harry has missed him _so much._

Harry’s stomach turns unpleasantly as he watches as Draco’s face goes from shock to relief to rage. Draco throws open the door and glares.

"How did you get in here?" he demands. "The wards—"

"Er, I took them down," Harry says sheepishly. Draco’s glare deepens, so he adds quickly, "And put them back!" Draco just looks at him. Harry sighs. "I didn't think you'd let me in."

"I would have, if you'd just waited at the gates like a civilised person," Draco snaps.

"You would not," Harry retorts, shivering from the soaking rain.

Draco hesitates, looking like he wants to say something. He settles on, "You're outside.”

"Yes,” Harry agrees, flashing a wide smile, “I walked up your drive and everything.”

Looking less angry and more unsure, Draco pulls his bathrobe around his chest. Which is a shame, because it had been dangerously close to opening and revealing more of Draco than Harry’s ever seen. "Why?"

"I wanted to tell you... something,” Harry says, and suddenly, he isn’t sure of any of this. He’d come all this way, ran all the way up the huge drive at Malfoy Manor, and now, standing inches from the safety of the indoors, he’s more nervous than he’s been all year.

He maybe should have thought this through.

"Well, tell me, then, before we both freeze to death," Draco says, arching an eyebrow and folding his arms. Christ, he looks so good. Harry only hopes that he can get Draco to smile again.

Without thinking much of what he’s going to say, Harry blurts out: "That I see it."

Draco’s eyebrow climbs higher. "See what?"

"I said I was waiting for something that day, and I said I'd know it when I... well, I wanted to tell you that I see it. And I know it. I _saw_ it, anyway,” Harry stumbles, slightly embarrassed at his own incoherency. “It was in my house, lying on my carpets and drinking my coffee and reading my—Ginny's magazines, and torturing my cat.” Harry takes a deep breath, tries not to mess this up like he has with everything else, watches a shell-shocked Draco, and needs him to understand: “And I... was a bit of an idiot."

Draco stares at him with wide eyes. "You were a lot of an idiot.”

"Probably. And after I was an idiot and it left—the something—I thought it was better, I thought I didn't need it, but... fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be," Harry inhales deeply, forces himself to make more sense. "I talked to Hermione—"

"I know. I heard you," Draco says, and Harry’s heart plummets. That would make sense, considering Hermione’s expression after she’d come back into the kitchen with more packages on Wednesday. Damn it, that had been why she’d called him an idiot! Draco must have overheard everything: how Harry had said he didn’t want Draco to come back, and had never wanted him in the first place.

Harry has been so, _so_ stupid. It’s becoming more apparent with every passing second.

"How?"

"I brought your cat back, and... it's not important." Draco shakes his head.

“It’s not?” Harry doesn’t understand; of course it’s important, if Draco heard all those horrible things he said.

Draco steps closer, and Harry’s already racing heart speeds up. "It's not."

Harry’s mouth twitches, and he feels light with hope. "So the point is, Draco, even though I'm completely useless at this, I think you're the something and I'd like it back, please. And walking up your drive was one of the scariest things I've ever done, so the least you can do is let me in for a bit," he finishes, barely breathing.

"If I'm the something then everything changes," Draco says quietly, and the emotion in his grey eyes is suffocating.

"Yes, it does," Harry agrees, wanting to cry with relief.

"No more waiting," Draco insists.

"Is that a statement or a question?" Harry asks, for no good reason, and his resolve cracks. He steps close to Draco, though not nearly as close as he wants, and reaches for the robe on his belt. It’s a soft, expensive material, and Harry wants it on the floor.

"Why the fuck does that matter?" Draco sounds slightly out of breath.

Harry laughs, filled with a happiness he never thought he’d feel again. "It doesn't. I've just missed arguing with you."

"You're insufferable," Draco whispers, and his pale fingers twine in Harry’s sopping wet hair.

"Thanks, you too,” Harry mumbles, leaning closer. Then, because he needs to hear it: “No more waiting.”

He reaches out, and when his cold fingers touch Draco’s blushing face the shudder that goes through him makes Harry laugh. Grey eyes don’t even glare at that, they just get closer and closer until Harry can’t see them anymore, because his own eyes are closed and he’s kissing Draco with perfect slowness.

When Draco’s mouth opens under his, Harry is eternally grateful that he isn’t drunk this time. He wants to remember the way Draco tastes forever. His cock takes notice under his denims, and can only hope Draco is having the same reaction. From the tiny gasps coming from under his mouth, Harry would guess that he is.

A warm hand traces over the freezing skin on his back, and the feel of it makes Harry catch his breath. He tugs at Draco’s hair, running his hands through it again and again, unable to get enough of its softness.

"In," Draco mumbles against his mouth, and Harry wants to tell him to shut up and kiss him harder, but all that comes out is a low “hmm,” before he deepens the kiss himself.

Draco pulls away, and Harry blinks at him, mind fogged by desire. Fuck, but Draco looks good with his lips swollen and his eyes almost black with lust. Grabbing his hand, Draco tugs him inside, and the warmth is more than welcome.

They manage to get as far as the middle of the entrance hall when Harry decides that he really doesn’t feel like waiting any more. Dropping his hands to the belt on Draco’s robe—mouth watering at the nice-sized bulge that’s completely obvious through the thin material of Draco’s pants—Harry tears the belt away. Slowly, trembling with want, Harry pushes the robe off of Draco’s shoulders. Suddenly, there’s a canvas of pale, gorgeous skin in front of him, and Harry thinks he could stare forever. Lean muscles, slender hips, and peaked nipples all beg him to touch. He examines Draco’s entire upper body before settling his gaze on the erect cock that’s almost tearing through his pajama bottoms.

        Harry feels a tug at his belt loops and realises that his staring might be a little weird. “Sorry,” he says breathlessly. "I wanted to see you," he admits, finally allowing himself to move away the restricting pajamas and touch the hot, hard flesh jutting out from blond curls. It’s so different than the way a girl feels, new and exciting and amazingly _Draco;_ Harry can’t help wondering, with little sense, why he’s never done this before.

"Fuck," Draco hisses, and when he pushes forwards, Harry almost comes apart. Gentle, needy fingers touch Harry through his clothes, and he can’t help the desperate noise that escapes him.

Draco looks up, and when they catch eyes, Harry almost collapses in a puddle of need.

"No waiting," Draco repeats, and presses his mouth to Harry's.

They stumble and touch, and by the time they’ve reached the marble stairs, there’s so much skin on skin that Harry almost can’t breathe. His jacket and shirt have disappeared without him noticing, and Draco’s mouth on his feels like fire.

Backed against the stairs, Harry watches Draco above him, watches grey eyes travel over him as his own wrists are pinned to the marble. Watches Draco’s cock dangerously close to his own, and holds his breath in anticipation.

Draco, it seems, has other ideas, because soon his mouth is all over Harry. Steady lips cover his neck, his throat, collarbones, and chest, steadily going lower until Harry realises with a quietly whimpered oh just what is about to happen. When Draco’s mouth finally closes over the head of his cock, Harry’s groan is embarrassingly loud.

Draco moans back, and Harry almost comes on the spot.

Merlin, it’s unlike anything, seeing Draco wrapping around him like that—it’s better than any sex he’s ever had, and he needs to have it forever.

Harry doesn’t realise that his wrists have been released until he notices Draco’s hand slipping under his own pajama bottoms, the other one wrapping around Harry’s cock. Draco bringing himself off with Harry’s cock in his mouth is the hottest thing he’s ever seen. His hips snap upwards without his consent, and Draco takes his quickened thrusts with a hum of appreciation.

"Draco... fuck," Harry pants, because after all this time, he’s found his something—and now, more than anything, he needs to fucking _look at it_. He needs to watch Draco come as much as he needs to come himself. "Selfish bastard... want to _see."_

Draco seems to understand, because in a matter of seconds he’s yanked his waistband down. Their eye contact never breaks. Draco pulls at the both of them, sucking Harry’s cock with what Harry can only describe as perfection.

Eyes wide and blood pounding, Harry gapes as Draco stiffens, cries out around his cock, and spurts pearly liquid into his hand, eyes finally closing. The look of absolute pleasure on his face is too much, far too much, because Harry knows that he did that, and that pushes him over the edge.

Harry had been planning on warning Draco before coming in his mouth, but when he finally unravels with an uninhibited shout, it’s too late to say anything. Draco doesn’t seem to mind.

Neither of them is able to move; Harry lies, eyes closed, sprawled out on the stairs; the marble hurting his back is negligible. Draco stays kneeling in front of him for a few minutes, panting, resting his head against Harry’s bent knees.

When Harry feels Draco move up to lie next to him, he opens his eyes and can’t resist a grin.

Cheeks flushed and hair all over the place, Harry thinks that Draco has never looked better. Even when he’s smiling.

"Well, I've never done that before," Harry sighs happily.

"Which part?" Draco asks, slightly alarmed as he pokes Harry in the stomach."Sex?"

Harry rolls his eyes, kissing the closest part of Draco—his shoulder—in an attempt to shut him up. "I've had sex, Draco. But not with a man. And not with you. And not on a staircase."

Draco’s face breaks into a shining smile. "You haven't lived."

"I know. I'm working on it, see?" Harry says, gesturing to their sticky, naked bodies.

Draco flushes, looking down at himself, as though he’s only just realised the state of the two of them. "I'm cold."

Harry flicks his hand and thinks of a cleaning charm. When Draco examines his newly cleaned hand, he scowls unconvincingly.

"You're a terrible show-off.”

"You're welcome." Harry mumbles, yawning and moving closer to Draco, because he can. "Hermione would kill me for this but I don't think I can get up yet, so do you think—"

"I'll take that as a compliment,” Draco smirks

"Shut up. Do you think your house-elf could get us a decent cup of coffee?"

Draco snorts. "I'm afraid that if you want anything done properly around here, you have to do it yourself."

"That doesn't sound very Malfoy," Harry mutters, shifting so that he can see Draco’s face and moving dark fringe out of his eyes.

Draco shrugs, staring out the still-transparent door and biting his lip. When he looks back at Harry, grey eyes are clear and twinkling.

"Well, perhaps not. But I'm thinking that it's time to reconsider what is and isn't 'Malfoy.’”

Harry’s chest fills with emotion at the words and their implications, and as he murmurs, "Sounds like a plan," and watches Draco smiling lazily, he feels like he could stay here forever. Well, if the marble underneath him weren’t so uncomfortable. "Did I really just have sex on your staircase?"

Draco laughs, thighs pressing into Harry’s. "Would you call that sex?"

Taken aback, Harry frowns. "Would you?"

"Probably not, but it's certainly a start," Draco says, sparking hope in Harry because that means there will be _more_. "Come on," he urges, prodding Harry with his foot, "let's go down to the kitchen; you can make some decent coffee and I'll see if I can persuade Klinky that the danger has passed and he can come out of the pantry."

Harry raises an eyebrow—which, he notes with something akin to fear, is a quirk that he definitely picked up from Malfoy. "I'm not going to ask."

Draco looks amused. "Good call."

 

 

******

        They’re sitting in the kitchen twenty minutes later, drinking coffee and discussing Draco’s lack of Malfoy.

        “That’s why you always looked starved, then?” Harry wonders. “I’m sure you could buy a better house elf if you wanted.”

        “Actually, I can’t, thanks to Granger and her new laws against exactly that.” He sighs, but Harry notices that there’s no malice in his tone. Harry doesn’t think Draco minds this whole Reconsidering-What-Being-A-Malfoy-Is thing. “And what do you mean, _looked starved_?”

     “Well, you did before I started feeding you," Harry says matter of factly.

        Draco scoffs. Harry drinks his coffee.

        “So,” Draco says, faux-casual. “What’s it going to take for me to convince you to go back outside?”

        “A lot more sex,” Harry says seriously, and Draco punches him in the arm. “Oi! Is this an abusive relationship?”

        “Is this a relationship?”

        Harry opens his mouth, closes it again; he frowns, a cleft appearing between his eyebrows.

        Draco laughs. “I’m joking,” he says, leaning closer and kissing Harry with coffee-flavoured mouth. “You can’t get rid of me now.”

        Harry kisses him back, running a hand over Draco’s arm. “Good. We’re still having a lot of sex before I go back outside.”

        “I,” Draco begins, and is cut off by Harry’s mouth on his. “I won’t argue,” he tries again, when the mouth moves to his neck.

        “Fuck,” Harry mumbles into Draco’s throat when a gently eager hand comes to cup his growing erection.

        “Brilliant idea,” Draco replies, and then they’re Apparating into his bedroom.

When they arrive there, Harry takes a moment to look around: there’s a wide window pane on one side of the room, with a walk-out portico through it. An antique dresser sits in a corner near what can only be the entrance to a walk-in closet. The mirror on top lets Harry know that his hair is in a state.

        Draco grabs his hand and pulls him close. “If you’re going to look around my room,” He murmurs in Harry’s ear, leading him to the bed. “I think you’ll find that the most interesting part is over here."

        Harry chokes, mind already starting to slow with desire as blood rushes out of his brain and to his cock.

        “Who—I mean, did you want, or should I...?” Harry stops himself and rearranges his thoughts, attempting to sound slightly more articulate, lest Draco mock him. What he settles on is: “I’ve never had sex with a man. Like I said before. So I don’t...”

        Draco nods in understanding, but his eyes narrow marginally. “You don’t want to bottom.”

        Harry shrugs, feeling awkward. “Not _never,_ just... maybe not yet. I'm still getting used to all the other new things in my life right now. Like going outside. You can teach me later, or… yeah. ” Harry reaches up to jostle his hair, feeling awkward.

        After a moment, Draco smirks. “Maybe I’ll teach you eloquence as well,” he says offhandedly, his flippant words contrasting with the smile blooming across his face. Kneeling on his bed and fiddling with the band on his pajama pants—his robe and Harry’s shirt and coat are still in the entrance hall—Draco’s smile grows. “Everything is good,” he murmurs softly, taking Harry by the back of his neck and pulling him closer. “I want you inside me, anyway.”

        In his attempt to scramble out of his remaining clothes, Harry falls over twice.

 

 

*****

Some hours later, Harry is glaring at the Manor lawn with trepidation.

"This is really weird, Draco," Harry mumbles, stepping down from the porch onto the ground. He reaches up with a red-gloved hand to rub his face. The other hand is clad in one of Draco’s duck gloves, and Harry hopes that he won’t get scolded for that. He’s come to love the damned things.

And it’s becoming unavoidable that he doesn’t just love the gloves.

"My grass is not weird. Get on with it."

"You're not helping, you know." Harry makes a face and walks steadily towards Draco, who is already standing in the middle of the lawn.

"You've already walked all the way up the drive," Draco calls out.

"That was different. I wasn't thinking about it. I was thinking about... something else," Harry says, looking out over the grounds.

"If you want, I can help you think of something else now, too."

"Still not helping, Draco." Harry says, tugging at his hair. "No, this is no good. It has to be the park, or it doesn't count."

"Ever heard of taking things slowly?" Draco says sarcastically.

Harry grins. "Nope."

"Thought not.” Draco sighs. “There will be people in the park, you realise that?"

"Helping: something you are not," Harry replies, nerves tingling at the thought."Which is strange, considering that you're the one who wants me to do outside stuff. I know there will be people. I know they'll probably be talking about me. I know."

Draco looks down his gloves, concerned frown still in place.

"Anyway," Harry continues, lips quirked, struck by a sudden idea, "I'll have to get used to it, otherwise how am I going to come to your bizarre Quidditch picnic?"

Draco’s expression is one of shock for at least five seconds, until he manages to pull himself together. "How do you know about that?"

"I have my sources," Harry mutters, glancing away.

"With me, then,” Draco says after a few moments, holding out his arm. Harry bites his lip but grabs it, nerves speeding his movement. "If you want to splinch yourself, be my guest. You can't Apparate out of here... at the moment.”

"Go on then," Harry says, looking into light eyes and trusting. "No more waiting."

The look on Draco’s face right before they Disapparate outweighs the fear the encompasses Harry.

As they enter the park together, Harry feels the urge to both hang onto Draco and run the fuck away.

People are staring. People are staring a lot.

Harry doesn’t realise that he’s holding his breath until Draco clears his throat beside him. He attempts a deep breath; it comes out sharp and jagged.

When Harry looks up from the ground, there are at least twenty pairs of eyes on them. He swallows.

"What should we do?"

Draco shakes his head slowly, and Harry’s heart sinks. If Draco doesn’t know how to handle this, either, there’s no way it will work out.

But then, determinedly looking at him straight on, Draco tilts his chin up in defiance.

After half a second, he grabs Harry’s wrist and holds on.

"Let's give them something to talk about,” He says, and there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s no doubt in Harry, either, as he leans forward and captures Draco’s mouth with his.

 

 

******

“You look terrified,” Draco helpfully points out, and Harry glares. He had looked a little ruffled when they left the house before, but he didn’t actually think anyone would _notice._ Stupid Draco, always… looking at him.

“Not terrified,” He replies grudgingly.

Draco smirks. “Then the only other explanation for that look on your face is that you’re nervous. Which under any other circumstance would be expected, as we’re currently outside,” He gestures vaguely to their surroundings. “However,” He continues, “It’s been two weeks since you walked up the Manor drive, and actually you’ve gotten much less jumpy about these sorts of things. Or a little less jumpy, because we should take into consideration that incident with the cat last week.”

“It came out of nowhere!” Harry defends. “What’s your point, Draco?”

“You’re scared to see a Weasley,” Draco concludes, and in contrast to his condescending words, a warm hand reaches out to grasp Harry’s.

When he’d made to Apparate to Ron’s apartment, Harry hadn’t quite been able to do it. Instead, he’d taken them just over a mile away, and from that point Draco has been dragging him to their destination.

“’M not _scared,_ ” Harry says. “It’s just… been a long time since I’ve seen him. And I don’t know if he’ll want to see me.”

“However much he doesn’t want to see you, he’ll want to see me even less,” Draco says, as if that’s some sort of consolation. It isn’t. “And the apartment is right there.” Harry swallows loudly. “Harry, it’s all right. I’m here.”

They buzz up to Ron’s room, stand outside the door, and wait for the wards to give in so that they can enter. After a few moments, the door opens.

Ron stands in the doorway open-mouthed.

“Harry, mate,” He says, and then he’s launched himself forward and is tackling Harry in a hug that is actually rather Hermione-like. “You’re outside.”

Harry can’t keep the grin off his face. Merlin, he’s missed Ron. “I am.”

“Thought I’d never see you out of that house,” Ron says, pulling back.

“Though I’d never see you at all,” Harry murmurs, and Ron’s smile drops a little.

“Mate, you should come in. I should… explain myself,” Ron says. “And you should explain why Draco Malfoy is lurking beside us.”

Draco snorts, and Harry turns to shoot him a warning glance; there’s no point, though, because Draco knows how important it is for Harry to be here—he’s the one that dragged Harry here in the first place—and he isn’t going to ruin it. And Harry feels a burst of love and fondness and affection in his chest, and he feels calm when he looks back at Ron.

“I’ll come in,” Harry says, “And I’ll explain why Draco is here. But you go, first. I’d like to know why I haven’t even heard from you in ages.”

“’Course,” Ron says, as Harry and Draco file into his home. “Erm, he isn’t going to hex me or anything, right? Are you, Malfoy?”

“I might have to, Weasley,” is the only response, and Harry laughs.

For the first time since the War ended, he feels like he belongs in the outside world.


End file.
